Where Our Paths May Meet
by Rosibo
Summary: Killian and Emma's respective childhoods explored after Emma has been saved from the Dark One's curse. Killian encourages Emma to write her experiences in a book, as he once did, to help her move on from the scars the darkness has left upon her. Memories are shared and pasts uncovered.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Well Hello there, friends! How are we all coping with the hiatus? I personally AM DYING.**

 **And that is the reason I've started writing this fic. I've really only just started it and have very little written, but I will try and keep on top of it as there will be a fair few chapters. Now, I'm not begging for reviews (cough), but judging by past experience, they really do help motivate me to keep going, so if you find you're enjoying this along the way, please do consider leaving me a comment and letting me know your thoughts. It might just bring the updates forward a bit!**

 **This will be a HEAVY story. T** **his is going to be the story of Killian's and Emma's respective childhoods. And because I love angst, I will be pulling no punches. I'm talking violence, abuse (including of a sexual nature), potentially self harm depending on how mean I want to be to these characters. So please, if you're likely to be triggered or uncomfortable with any of this (it won't be too graphic, but still...) then please don't read on.**

 **If you're still with me after that warning and this rambling, welcome aboard. The first two chapters of this will serve as somewhat of a prologue, and then from chapter 3 onwards we will dive right into the back stories of our beloveds. So grab a cuppa, keep on reading, and leave me a review! Much love!**

 **Disclaimer: I literally own nothing except my car and my MacBook.**

 **WARNING: ABUSE, SEXUAL ABUSE, VIOLENCE.**

Chapter 1

Killian was already on the edge of wakefulness when Emma bolted upright for the third time that night to his right hand-side, sweat clinging to her brow and her breathing wild and unsteady. His tired muscles almost seemed to groan as he pushed himself up from his prone position beside her on his bed on the Jolly Roger, his forehead gently falling to rest at the join between her neck and shoulder. His hand travelled softly up her spine, coming to a stop at the nape of her neck and remaining still except for his thumb, which stroked back and forth across her clammy skin.

He felt her calm instantly at the familiar action; the quiet, soothing rush of his breath against the round of her shoulder, and the softness of his hair against her ear as he nuzzled his nose further into the warmth of her skin, were forms of contact they'd repeated numerous times each night since Emma had been saved from the darkness, little over a week ago. At first, he had tried to comfort her with words, quiet whispering and hushing as she cried into his neck. But after so many nights, and even more nightmares, words had quickly run dry. He'd come to realise, though he had suspected it from the start, that nothing he could say would be enough to drive the nightmares away. So he resolved to just be there with her, lending her the sound of his breathing close to her ear to bring her own shuddering gasps back to a calmer pace, and the gentleness of his touch to cool her fevered skin.

Their ritual had been the same each time she awoke: they would sit in near-silence until the frigid terror gripping her bones subsided, at which point she would reach her hand up to the back of his head, signalling that she was alright. He would lift his head from her shoulder, plant a tender kiss against her jaw, and draw her close to his chest with his good arm. Her arms would curl around his torso, and he would slowly guide her backwards to lie down beside him, pillowing her head upon his bare shoulder as her face turned into the warmth of his chest. It had become a perfectly choreographed dance, but tonight, after her third nightmare of the night, she finally broke the routine.

With his head still tucked against her shoulder, her breathing still ragged, and moisture still seeping from her closed eyelids, she spoke.

"I'm sorry," she choked out.

Startled by the unexpected sound of her voice in the quiet of the cabin, he felt his heart constrict painfully at the brokenness of the two quietly uttered words as they fell from her lips. His head rose from its place against her skin, and he found himself leaning forward, searching her eyes out in the semi-dark room, lit dimly by the moonlight gleaming in through the windows looking out over the ocean.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, love," he spoke gently once he'd found his voice, though it sounded gravelly and coarse as sleep lingered.

Her response was a silent, breathy sob as her knees curled closer to her chest, her hands coming up to press against her eyes.

"Emma," he whispered sadly, "Emma, look at me."

Reluctantly, her hands dropped away from her eyes, but they remained closed as her head hung forward dejectedly. His right arm wrapped tighter around her back, and he reached forward with his stump until it came into gentle, timid contact with her chin, and pulled her face towards his searching eyes.

She did not fight him, her head turning willingly to his and her eyes falling open slowly to meet his own. Fresh tears broke free and rolled carelessly down her cheeks as her green eyes burned into his blue, the desperation and fear he saw there slicing through him sharply.

"Tell me," he implored softly.

"I can't," she whispered, shaking her head slightly without breaking eye contact.

"Please, love," he swallowed thickly, knowing he was treading on thin ice, "I hate seeing you like this. Let me in."

She let out another quiet sob as she shook her head again. Killian considered his next words carefully. Part of him knew he should stop pushing now. He should just pull her to him like so many nights before and let her silence remain, uncomfortable but unchallenged. But a larger part of him knew that was no longer an option. Right now, he was on the brink of either helping her open up, or having her push him away and flee. It all rested on a knife's edge, but they couldn't go back. He couldn't keep doing this, night after night, watching her suffer and doing nothing about it. So he pushed, just one last time.

"Help me understand," he requested timidly, the fear of her rebuttal hanging thickly in the air between them, "please."

She took a deep shaky breath, and he knew she could sense his desperation to help her. She seemed to consider him for a moment, or perhaps she was steeling herself, but suddenly her eyes left his to look down at her knees, and he thought for a moment that he'd lost her. And then, at last, she spoke.

"The darkness," she started slowly, barely more than a whisper, her eyes trained intently on her knees, "it showed me things. Memories."

"Your childhood?" he asked softly.

She nodded quickly, just once.

"Things I'd pushed down and hidden. Things I didn't want to remember. It knew. Somehow, it knew what it had to show me to bring out the darkness inside me."

Killian knew Emma's childhood had been a far cry from ideal, much like his own. He didn't fully understand the systems in place for orphans in this realm, but he knew she had grown up without her parents, and though they had never truly discussed the details of either of their upbringings, he could tell there was much in her past that she wished to forget. It was a sentiment he was all too familiar with.

"Perhaps if you were to share these memories with someone," he offered, trying his damnedest not to sound pushy, but needing to give her the opportunity to talk.

"Killian," she whispered, her eyes falling shut again, "I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't."

He understood. Truly, he did. He had never spoken in any detail of his own years growing up to anyone, and he suspected her reasons were similar to his own; that to speak of such events serves only as a reminder of that pain. To speak of it is to relive it in a way, and some things should never be relived.

And then he remembered something. The book.

* * *

Emma fought to control the crippling fear that refused to dissipate tonight. The normal ritual of falling into Killian's comforting embrace had been broken, and she was stuck on the brink of revealing herself. She felt his persistent gaze burning into the side of her head as she forced her eyes shut tight, forehead falling against her knees.

She wanted to open up to him. She wanted to tell him every fear and every painful memory that haunted her each and every night, but she couldn't; the words would not come. There was just a sickening lump that rose in her throat and strangled her into silence, and a burning terror that accompanied the notion of allowing herself to become so vulnerable. She trusted this man with her life, her heart, everything. But some habits were hard to break.

Then suddenly, the warmth of his arm across her back and the hand curled into her waist was gone. Her eyes flashed open, head turning to follow him as he clambered from the bed. She watched him with curiosity as he crossed the room, eyes trained on the familiar, faint scarring across his back, which she had never asked about. He reached across to the bookshelves above his desk, pulling down some kind of notebook and depositing it tightly between the underside of his left bicep and his ribcage, before reaching down to tug open a drawer and pull out a second, more tattered book, using his knuckles to slide the drawer shut with a practised elegance.

She lowered her knees and pushed herself back to lean against the headboard as he climbed back onto the bed beside her, the two books coming to rest in his lap. She reached up to wipe the remaining wetness from her cheeks, and watched as he appeared to steel himself. His hand gripped the side of the books tightly as he stared at them intently, and Emma noticed a slight tremble in his fingers that hadn't been present moments before.

She reached over to rest her hand atop of his, and his eyes snapped up to meet hers, as if woken suddenly from some distant thought. A slight blush crept to his cheeks as he threw her an awkward half-smile, before he cleared his throat and looked back down at the books.

"After my brother, Liam, died," Killian began, his words slow and deliberate, "I was angry, for a long, long time. But I was also scared. He was all I had in the world, and I owed him my life, for reasons I shan't go into."

He appeared to drift away with that thought slightly, brought back only by Emma's comforting squeeze on his fingers.

"I had many a nightmare after that," he continued, "Memories of things I had hoped to forget. They never really stopped. That is, until Milah suggested I write it all down."

Emma's eyes fell to the book at the top of the small pile. It was a plain, if slightly faded, black cover, with an embossed gold border that swirled intricately in a wave-like pattern, running just inside the four edges. The book looked old, slightly tattered and worn, but did not appear to have been opened and read many times.

"What did you write?" Emma asked curiously.

"My life. My childhood," he answered, eyes coming up to meet hers pointedly, "Everything I remember from my youth, all the memories that plagued me every night. It's all in here."

His fingers slipped from under hers and trailed reverently across the cover, following the golden waves, as her hand came to rest upon his wrist and over the tattoo of his first love's name.

"You loved her," Emma said softly, trying to keep the slight edge of jealousy from her tone, "Milah."

"Aye, I did," he nodded, "but I was a different man, then."

His eyes gazed into hers, and the love she saw there, raw and unbridled and just for her, chased that pang of jealousy away, and she found herself smiling ever so slightly.

"Did it work?" she asked, breaking the spell their eyes had cast upon them, "writing it down?"

"Aye, somewhat," he gulped, returning her timid smile.

His eyes fell back to the books once again, and suddenly he was sliding the second one out from beneath the black one. This one was plain, dark red, and crisp, seemingly untouched. He lifted the cover and the first few pages to reveal the blank, lined pages.

"You want me to write my story," she stated, her tone becoming instantly more sombre.

"I understand how hard it is to talk of such things," Killian began deliberately, clearly searching for the right words, "but I also know how vastly the weight can be taken from your shoulders by acknowledging, and coming to accept the past. I don't suppose to assume that what worked for me will also work for you. But if in some way I can help take away your pain…"

She could tell he was floundering slightly, tiptoeing so carefully so as not to upset her, or drive her away. And she couldn't blame him; given her track record, it wasn't so crazy for him to assume such a thing was likely. Despite all his bravado and self-assuredness, he was still so vulnerable around her, so careful with his words. She would need to work hard to show him that she was with him now, unconditionally. No more running.

"OK," she answered simply, cutting him off from his awkward explanation.

He blinked at her, surprised at her quick response.

"OK?" he repeated questioningly.

"OK," she affirmed, swallowing thickly, "I'll try it. If you think it'll help, I trust you. I'll try."

She couldn't help the slight smile that spread across her mouth as his face visibly lit up. He carefully handed her the red-covered book, and she took it from him confidently, testing the weight of it in her hands.

"Tomorrow," she finished, pulling the black book from his lap, and leaning over to place both books on the floor.

"Tomorrow," he echoed as he joined her in scooting back down the bed.

She straightened the pillows just as his head came to rest, and after leaning over to place a soft, slow kiss on his lips, she reinstated their normal ritual, curling herself into his chest and wrapping one of her legs over and around one of his. She felt him press a kiss to her forehead, leaving his lips resting against her hairline, his right hand rubbing soothing circles on her back and his left wrist covering the hand she had placed firmly over his heart. The exhaustion of many sleepless nights hit her like a freight train, and within minutes she felt herself drifting, calmed by the strong, unwavering warmth beneath her cheek, and a glimmer of hope that soon she would be able to move forward. Tomorrow, she would face those fears head on, arm herself with a pen, and trust Killian's judgement that, come morning light, she may just be able to find a way out of this seemingly unending abyss.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Almost three weeks had passed before Emma placed the final full stop at the end of her story. Though Storybrooke had been relatively quiet since the Dark One had been destroyed for good, she had found it difficult finding time to write, the day-to-day duties of a Sherriff seeing to that. But at Killian's insistence, she sat down at the Sherriff's station each evening and wrote a little more, with the pirate's ever-comforting presence nearby as he lounged on the old couch beside her desk, some novel or other in his hand. Usually she would plan to spend just a little time on it, perhaps an hour, but more often than not she would end up writing for hours on end, lost in the past as the details flooded steadily back to her. It was usually Killian's gentle hand upon her shoulder and soft lips above her ear that alerted her to the late hour.

Tonight, with the final sentence complete, Emma looked down at her handiwork and silently admonished herself for never better developing her handwriting skills. Scanning back over the letters on the page, she took a deep breath. She'd written it all. Every bad memory she could recall from her youth. Many she had pushed so far down until now, that they almost felt like someone else's memories. In fact, she noticed with a certain amount of surprise, the whole thing seemed that bit less real now, less raw. Almost like somehow, by writing it down, it became like any other book: harmless words on a page; just a story. With that revelation, she slowly, ever so carefully, closed the book and placed her hands firmly over the cover.

She felt herself almost smile at the accomplishment. So many times over these past weeks she had thought about stopping, giving up and accepting defeat. Some evenings, the pain of recounting the past had been so overwhelming that it threatened to crush her. But in those moments, Killian had always appeared beside her, curling an arm around her shoulders and holding her until she felt ready to carry on. He never asked her to explain herself, never tried to peek at the open page before them, always respecting her privacy and never pushing. And the nightmares had steadily receded. She still had them, and she still woke up panicked and in a sweat, but they were few and far between, maybe only once every few nights and far less intense. Killian had been right.

No, Milah had been right.

As if on cue, she felt his hand and hook fall softly to rest upon her shoulders and his breath at her ear, and her smile grew that much wider as his very touch chased that tiny pang of jealousy from her mind.

"Finished, Swan?" he asked softly.

She nodded, before sliding out from under his hands, coming to stand before him and reaching her arms up to curl around his neck. She leaned forward to rest her forehead against his, as his arms wound their way around her waist, pulling her close to him.

"Thank you," she whispered, nudging his nose with her own.

"This was all you, Swan," he answered, pulling back just enough to plant a kiss on the tip of her nose, before bringing his head back to meet hers.

"No, but thank you," she answered, becoming more serious, "I'd never have gotten through it without you."

"You underestimate yourself, love," he whispered with equal sincerity.

"Could say the same about you," she told him, a slight grin stretching across her lips.

He returned her smile, before tilting his chin forward, meeting her mouth in a chaste kiss, his lips closing tenderly over hers. She chased his mouth as he pulled his head back, refusing to remove her arms from his neck and eliciting a contented smile from him.

"Home?" he asked gently.

"I promised Mary-Margaret I'd stay at the loft tonight," she answered, not bothering to cover her regret as she lifted her hand up to stroke his cheek gently.

"Surely they can survive without you tonight?" he suggested hopefully.

"They're worried about me," she told him, "the last time I slept there, I think my nightmares woke them more times than Neal did. I need to show them that things are getting better."

"I can stay with you," Killian proposed.

"Somehow I don't think David would be too happy about that," she smirked.

"All the more reason, Swan," he grinned.

She snorted, quickly pecking him on the lips.

"Careful, pirate, or you might just get another sword in your back," she smiled, and she found herself getting lost in the mischief in his ocean-blue eyes, "Come on, you can walk me."

She planted one more quick kiss to his mouth, before pulling back and releasing him from her hold. She leaned over to her desk, picking up her bag and slinging the strap onto her shoulder, as he returned to the couch to collect his own. She picked up her keys in one hand, and her eyes fell upon her red notebook, once again reminding her of everything she had been through recently. _He_ made it so easy for her to forget sometimes.

"Ready?" he asked from beside her.

"Yeah," she answered quickly, picking up the book and placing it in her bag, "let's go."

They walked hand in hand along the dark, deserted streets, which were lit only by streetlamps at the late hour. They fell into a companionable silence, the empty town around them and the warmth of the other's hand instilling a sense of peace that they were more than happy to leave undisturbed.

Upon reaching the door to the loft, Killian seemed reluctant to release her hand, and she could see a tension creeping up to his shoulders. He stopped before her, eyes trained on the floor as his fingers twitched in her grasp.

"Killian?" she said questioningly, a frown forming across her brow, "You alright?"

"Fine, love," he answered quickly as his eyes snapped up to hers and he smiled unconvincingly.

Her frown only deepened.

"No, tell me what's wrong," she pushed, forcing her hand out of his to rest upon his cheek, her other hand following suit on the other side of his face.

His eyes met hers intently. She could almost hear the gears whirring in his mind as he stewed over something, and she stared back searchingly. She waited silently until he seemed to come to some kind of decision, and his features became resolute.

And then he reached down into his bag, and pulled something from it, holding it out to her. Her fingers slipped down from his cheeks, both hands reaching out timidly to grasp either side of the object.

It was the black book with the faded cover. His story.

She looked back at him questioningly as he pushed it into her hands, withdrawing his own to leave the book in her grasp.

"I want you to have it," he told her quietly, and she could easily read the vulnerability in his gaze.

"Me? Why?" she asked, confusion plastered over her face.

"Because I trust you," he answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "I trust you with my life and my heart. And now I entrust you with my memories. I want you to read it."

Emma couldn't keep the astonishment from rushing across her features; her absolute amazement, utter disbelief at the faith that this man was once again placing in her. She could feel the tears welling up at the edges of her eyes, but she refused to let them develop into full-on tears. At her silence, he seemed to grow uneasy.

"Only if you want to," he quickly added, and the uncertainty and insecurity in his tone broke her from her silence.

"Killian, I…" she started, struggling to find words, "Are you sure?"

He smiled then, his thumb coming up to pinch her chin gently.

"I'm sure," he answered, all hesitancy diminished, "I've never shared these parts of my past with anyone. But I want no secrets from you, Emma."

"But surely Milah…" Emma began. Surely the woman who'd suggested he write it all down had read the result.

"…Never read it," he answered her unfinished question, "I never had the desire to share it with her. I loved her, but she never had my unbridled trust. Not like you do."

"You really trust me that much?" she asked, still disbelieving.

"Don't you know by now?" he asked, smiling almost sadly at her continued inability to trust in his feelings for her, "You own a part of my very being, Swan. How could I not trust you?"

Emma swallowed thickly as the emotions threatened to overwhelm her. And suddenly there was only one thing she could do.

With his book held in one hand, she reached into her bag with the other, pulling her own red book out, holding it out to him with almost no sign of hesitation.

His eyes blew wide in surprise, his mouth dropping open slightly.

"Emma, you don't have to…" he started.

"I know," she interrupted, "but I want to. I want you to read mine. It's like you said, no secrets. No more hiding."

She could see he wanted to argue, but the certainty in her tone had him stunned into silence as he timidly reached out to take the book from her.

And then she smiled at him, widely and brightly, and all he could do was pull her to him with his hooked arm around her lower back, and crush his lips into hers. She returned his kiss with equal fervour, only pulling back when the kiss threatened to push them into much less savoury territory. As her lips left his, their foreheads remained pressed together, neither opening their eyes as they returned back to Earth, breathing laboured.

"I love you," Killian whispered, only the third time he had said the phrase to her. Out loud, at least. His heart had been screaming it for a long time.

"I love you," Emma echoed, the words still feeling slightly alien to her, despite her absolute certainty that she meant them.

They stood together, neither willing to move away and part for the evening, until the sound of the loft door opening behind them forced them to jump swiftly apart.

They both turned around quickly to see David in the doorway, arms crossed and protective father stance on full tilt.

"Evening, you two," David said, smirking slightly at the matching blushes on the couple's faces.

"Evening, mate," Killian said, finding his voice first.

"Goodnight, Killian," Emma spoke quickly, keen to bypass the father-son-in-law banter that she still found so weird, particularly since Killian was a good couple of centuries older than her father, who was only a few years older than she was herself.

"Goodnight, love," Killian answered, smirking as he saw through her ploy, and planting a very deliberate and lingering kiss to her cheek.

"Yes, goodnight, Killian," David said a little too loudly when Killian didn't pull back from his daughter's cheek immediately.

"Night, Dave," Killian threw a wink at the prince, before smiling at Emma, enjoying her quirked eyebrow as she silently, playfully admonished his brazenness.

And then his back was turned and he was down the stairs and out of sight with one last smile at Emma, and she found herself staring after him, deep in thought, until the sound of David clearing his throat had her head whipping around to meet his stare.

"Hey," Emma said, quickly sidling past him to hide her embarrassed blush as he remained in the doorway, "where's Mary-Margaret?"

"Asleep, it's pretty late," he answered quietly, shutting the door and following her into the kitchen where she dropped her bag on the countertop, "what's that?"

She turned quickly to see him staring at the black book in her hand. She'd almost forgotten she was holding it.

"Oh, just a book Killian is lending me," she replied, deciding it was best not to inform her father of the book's true origin.

"Looks old," he noted.

"Yeah, it's pretty old," she affirmed, "I think I'm gonna head on up to bed and start on it."

"OK," David nodded, "If you need us…"

"I'll be OK," she reassured, knowing he was thinking of her last night at home with them; both of her parents had been quite concerned by the occurrence of the numerous nightmares she'd had that night, "Really, things are getting better now."

David nodded again, only slightly reassured by the feigned confidence in her tone.

"Goodnight," she said, smiling broadly.

"Night," he answered, watching as she turned her back and headed up to her room.

She knew she should get some sleep. She could wake up early and start reading the book then. But something stopped her from putting it down. The promise of learning more about her mysterious pirate was too enticing to ignore, no matter how tired she was. So she shoved her pillows up against the headboard, settled in with the book in her lap and slowly, carefully, opened to the first page.

 **Hey, go on and leave a review would ya? Please!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello again! Just wanted to say a huge thank you for the reviews and follows/faves, and sorry for the minor cliffhanger I left you with there (mwahaha). I'm updating this quickly as I'll be away from my computer until Saturday night (UK time), so won't be able to update again before then.**

 **We are finally past the prologue and getting into our favourite couple's stories. It's gonna get angsty from here on out, so brace yerselves! From this point, I'm structuring it so that we get a quick look at a small part of each of their lives in chronological order, and with the events within each chapter showing parallels between their respective upbringings! It's complex to write, but hopefully you'll get it when you read it!**

 **Once again, if you enjoy what I'm doing here or if you just want to tell me how crap it is, please consider leaving a review! Constructive criticism (and sure, even the other kind) is always welcome :)**

Chapter 3

Emma looked down at the first page. The paper was slightly yellowed with age, and the ink had faded and smudged somewhat, but then she supposed that it had been written a very long time ago. Centuries even. The thought that the same man she had just kissed goodbye had written these words so long ago, was one she decided she might never get her head around.

Studying the page before her, she realised she had never really seen Killian's handwriting before, but she shouldn't be surprised by the precision, the perfection of the swirling, old-fashioned calligraphy that could only belong to someone brought up in a world or time without computers. A world where the style of a person's handwriting, the only form of written communication, must have been so important in creating the right impression or deducing the background of the author. She suddenly felt very self-conscious of her own almost incomprehensible scrawl. Had she known that she'd be allowing Killian to read it, she might've tried harder to make it legible. But then, at least she knew he wouldn't be surprised to find it as such; he had good-naturedly mocked her handwriting a number of times before, often earning himself a half-hearted slap on the arm.

Shaking the concern from her mind, she turned her attention back to the page before her, and steeling herself, she began to read.

 _Where do I begin, I wonder. I don't suppose anyone shall ever read this, if I even do, in fact, finish this. I should probably burn this damn thing when I'm through with it. Wouldn't that be symbolic? There is no greater purge than that which is caused by fire._

 _I've never been one for writing; wielding a pen has never felt natural to me, but I suppose such an aversion is to be expected when one spent the first ten years of life completely illiterate. They say the younger you learn to write, the easier it develops into an innate skill. That certainly seemed true as I remember struggling to form letters for the very first time, blotching ink over the page and grappling with the quill in my hand. That is not to say I am unappreciative of the skill; on the contrary, my gratitude to the man who did eventually impart such ability upon me cannot be overstated. But no, writing was never my forte._

 _Liam, my brother in all but blood, often used to write in his journal aboard the The Bonetta, the first ship I ever sailed on and where I met him for the first time. That was before I was taught literacy myself, and I would marvel at the speed and dexterity with which his pen would glide across the page, in letters I could never have deciphered at that point. I must admit that I was envious of this boy, seven years older than my eight-year-old self, and born from a wealthy family, with new, well-fitting clothes and an air of grace I had never possessed. Though we shared the same position of cabin boy, his father's name afforded him respect from the more experienced crew, legions beyond that which I received. Even when he was captain of The Jewel Of The Realm, and I his lieutenant, I would watch each evening as he would squint down at the page. A single candle was often the only source of light, yet he would never allow the dimness of the room to keep him from his task. But alas, that's jumping ahead, somewhat. I suppose, if I'm to write this all down, I should maintain some chronology._

 _So, from the beginning._

 _I was born in the shipping town of Lortuna in the Enchanted Forest to my mother, Lena. My father, Davin Jones, left my mother in the months running up to my birth. She used to tell me that he had left to work aboard a ship, the name of which she always swore she could not recall, and that one day she got word that the ship had been boarded by pirates, and my father had been executed with the rest of the crew._

 _I would later find out the falsity of this tale, but that part of my story must wait._

 _I grew up an only child, my mother earning our keep through what, at the time, she would always describe as "keeping the sailors company after their long voyages". Looking back, of course, it is clear that her actions were never so savoury as simply offering these men the gift of conversation. Prostitutes, I would come to learn, were as common in shipping towns as fishermen and sailors themselves. But it was not until many years after her death that I would have such a revelation._

 _Unfortunately, it was not long into my life that her death did occur._

 _I don't remember much of life before my fifth birthday. I remember that our house was small, always filthy. I slept on an old rug in the corner of the single room, covered by a thin sheet that did little to keep the cold at bay during the winter months. I specifically remember having two possessions, other than the three ragged shirts and single pair of trousers, which had holes in both knees. These two items comprised the extent of my belongings until many years later. The first was a small, wooden figure of a man, two scraps of cloth forming his clothing, with eyes and a mouth painted on unevenly. The other was a wooden spinning top, which was little bigger than the size of my four-year-old hand when it was gifted to me by a sailor who was passing through the town._

 _When I wasn't playing with these two objects, the streets outside constituted my playground. Other children from the neighbourhood, all living in similar degrees of squalor, used to speak of how we were "the rats of Lortuna", but Mother would always deny such a description when I asked her of the meaning. She would always say, "Rich men and poor men are all born with their arses out." As a child, I never really understood. Now, of course, I realise just what she meant: that all men are born equal. To a degree, I understand why she forced such an attitude; it was meant to instil a hope in me (and perhaps also herself) that there might somehow be some worth to a life lived as ours was. But with all I have learned of life, I can only disagree with the sentiment. I know that not all men are made equal. The way we come into the world may be the same, but it bears little impact upon life after that point. We are made by circumstance, differing quantities of luck and good fortune. And my mother and I, and every other family in that part of town, were afforded very little of either._

 _But alas, my ignorance of such differences as a child meant that the first few years of my life were moderately carefree. My mother made enough money for us to eat relatively often, without my knowing that far better food existed than the chewy offcuts of meat and the slightly decaying vegetables we habitually grazed upon. My unawareness that there were those who lived vastly different lives from the one to which I was accustomed, and that such people would find my own lifestyle unthinkable, allowed me to subsist in what, I suppose, could even be deemed as happiness. I had my mother, I had friends, and I had a home._

 _And then one day, just weeks after I turned five years old, Mother began to cough. And she didn't stop. Within weeks she couldn't leave her bed. Men started appearing at the door, threatening to remove us if we didn't pay up for what was loosely termed "our house", but what in reality was little more than a half-collapsed, wooden hut, with barely enough room for the two of us to sleep, and more rats than there were roof tiles. Our food ran out, and we didn't have the means to buy more. I had never known true hunger until then. I had spent my entire childhood, up to that point, underfed, and knew well the slight, dull ache that accompanied an empty belly. But that had been nothing compared to the absolute, burning, gut-crushing agony of this kind of hunger._

 _Mother managed to come to an arrangement with the man who owned our house; he would appear every couple of nights, and mother would make me stay outside until he had left. Sometimes he would be in there hours, and he would always emerge from our front door, still buttoning the front of his filthy, torn breeches. Once, I ventured to ask Mother why I couldn't be in the house while she talked to the man. It resulted in an angry smack around my confused skull, and a fury from my mother I had never seen before, resulting in her having such a coughing fit that I feared she would keel over then and there. I never dared ask again what was happening in that room._

 _Regardless of my lack of comprehension as to the goings-on behind my own front door, it is needless to say that whatever it had been, had taken care of the accommodation issue. But we still had no means of affording food. Mother told me I would have to go out and find work. She sent me along with one of the boys I played with from the town, Corin, who was but a few years my senior. He worked down at the dockyard, tying off the ropes of the ships coming into harbour, swabbing the decking of the gangways. He managed to convince his boss to give me a job doing the same, paying me just enough to buy a small loaf of bread every other day. I would go to work before the sun rose, and return home to Mother after it set each evening, and we would sparingly nibble at our bread._

 _Occasionally a passing sailor would take pity on me, the small, undernourished boy scrubbing the wooden planks with dry, blistered fingers, and throw me an old piece of fruit. I lived for such days, knowing how pleased Mother would be when I returned home with just a little more food, something with a touch more taste than the stale, bland loaves we had come to rely on._

 _For two years, I worked all day, every single day. For two years she hardly left her bed, almost too weak to move. She would spend all night coughing, but I quickly learned to sleep through the noise, lest I never get any sleep. And then one day, when I was seven years old, I returned home, and she was gone; her bed empty and cold. Our neighbour, Corin's mother, told me she had passed and that her body had been taken away, bit she did not know to where it had been taken. The hut, which had once seemed so small, suddenly seemed far too large and vacant._

 _Men appeared later that night as I lay awake, alone, curled up on the floor in the corner of the house. They dragged me from it, despite my kicking and screaming, and threw me out into the street, telling me I could no longer live there. I begged Corin's mother to let me stay with her, but their house was smaller than our own had been, and their income just as little._

 _I remember that first night, all too well. I wondered the streets for hours, searching for anywhere I could go, anyone who might take me in. But every warm crevice of the city already had another homeless body occupying it. I remember wandering down to the dockyard, and that's where I found the small, overturned, mostly rotten old boat that I would call home for the year that followed. The boat was in a derelict corner of the shipyard, and looked to have been untouched for many years. There was a gap where one edge rested upon a metal crate, just small enough that no grown man would have a hope of crawling through, but was just large enough for my undersized, scrawny frame to fit. I couldn't lie down straight beneath it, such was its size, but I'd become accustomed to sleeping curled up for warmth anyway. And it didn't provide much shelter, with all the cracks and rotten wood, but it covered just enough to keep me dry from the rain and shield me from the wind. That first night, I curled up in my new home, and I cried and cried, right until the sun came up and I was forced to go back to work to pay for my food. That night was the first time in my short life that I had nowhere to go, and nobody to go to. That night, I realised with startling clarity that I was, in fact, completely and totally alone._

Emma took a deep, shuddering breath as she reached up to wipe the moisture from her cheeks. The image in her mind of those blue eyes and dark hair she knew so well, but on a small, hungry boy as he cried alone in the dark, had her heart clenching painfully in her chest. The setting he had described, the story he was laying bare to her, seemed like one she might read in a history book. She had known his upbringing was a world away from her own, but she had never imagined it to be _this_ divergent.

From Killian's eloquence with words, his chivalry, and his gentlemanly poise, she had always thought he had been born into a rich family. She could never have dreamed he had started his life in such a way. The man was still such a mystery to her.

She readied herself to continue reading, taking a deep breath and briefly focussing on the ceiling above her bed, wondering if Killian had started reading her own tale of woe.

* * *

Killian sat on the edge of his bed back on the Jolly Roger. He was so very tired, but the thought of sleeping alone for the first time in weeks, without Emma by his side, was not one he relished. The red book lay beside him on the bed.

He was still unsure whether or not to open it. She had told him she wanted him to read it, and that she trusted him, but he couldn't help but wonder if she had just been caught in the moment, and been following his suit out of guilt. But no, her eyes had shown her confidence, her assuredness that she wanted to share this with him.

Knowing he would be getting no sleep without her beside him tonight, he resolved to make a start, knowing she was probably doing the same with his own tattered volume. Propping himself up against the wall, he opened to the first page, smiling to himself when he saw her familiar, messy scrawl across the page. Really, it wasn't as scruffy as he would have her believe with his amiable teasing, but the way she would pout as he affably mocked her made it worthwhile.

With mental images of said pout in his mind's eye, he began reading; delving into the past of the woman he had fallen so hopelessly in love with.

 _I don't know what to write, how do you even start one of these things? What am I even writing? A diary? An autobiography? I guess it doesn't even matter since nobody is going to read this. I hope. I suppose I always felt kind of jealous of everyone here being in Henry's Once Upon A Time book, but it seems a bit far to be writing my own story. But if Killian thinks it'll help, I guess I ought to try. You'd hope he'd have picked up some good self-improvement tips by now; he must have learned something in three hundred years. I'm rambling, excellent. My eighth grade English teacher always did say I went off topic too much. Not that I ever listened to what she told me anyway, on those rare occasions I actually showed up to her class._

 _ANYWAY!_

 _My story. My story. Stop rambling. OK._

 _I guess I should start with my earliest memory: I was three years old when my first foster family sent me to the group home. I remember it so clearly, because before that moment when the social worker came to collect me in her station wagon, filled with old juice boxes and dirty, abandoned teddy bears, I had no idea that the people I called Mom and Dad were not my real parents._

 _They had never told me I was a foster kid. Before taking me in, they'd had no kids of their own, but from what I understand, they'd been trying for years. I guess when they thought they might never conceive they decided to take in someone else's poor, abandoned baby. When I was growing up, I used to wonder why they didn't just adopt a baby to be their own, if they'd really thought they'd never conceive one naturally. But after time, I realised that they must never have truly given up hope. After all, it was only because she became pregnant, with twins so I heard, that they decided the child they'd raised for three years as their own, could never really,_ truly _, be their own._

 _I guess part of me gets that. They weren't the richest of couples, and I'm sure they realised having twins would be pretty damn expensive. They were faced with the decision of raising three kids with less money, or forgetting the one that wasn't theirs, and raising their own with enough money to live comfortable, happy lives. When you take out the emotion and look at the cold, hard facts, it makes sense, I guess. Like I mentioned, part of me gets that. But then there's the other part of me, which screams, "Why the hell wasn't I enough? I was your child for three years, how could you just throw me away like I was nothing?"_

 _That was the feeling I had, aged three, as the social worker, a tall, threatening woman with bad breath and dark circles under her eyes, pulled me from the house and out to the driveway, and told me I'd no longer be living with them. I remember turning to look at them as they stood in the front doorway, not understanding what was going on. And I remember them looking away, refusing to meet my pleading eyes. The woman I had known as my Mom turned her back, disappearing back into the house, never to be seen by my eyes again. The social worker was telling me that my Mommy and Daddy, were not, in fact, my Mommy and Daddy; that they were some kind people who were just looking after me for a while, and now it was time to go to a new home. One where there would be lots of other children to play with._

 _I didn't want other children to play with. I wanted my parents._

 _They didn't even say goodbye to me. I guess the guilt must have been too much, or they really didn't give a crap about me. Either way, before I knew it my "Daddy" had brought a suitcase out to the car where I stood beside the social worker. It was filled with my clothes, and a few stuffed animals I'd had, but the majority of my toys were still in that house, ready to be handed to their new babies. He quickly, carelessly handed me my favourite teddy, a stuffed rabbit called Hopsie, snatching his hand back as if the object had burned him. Then without a word, without a second glance, he was thanking the social worker and turning his back on us, walking up the driveway and into the house. I can still remember the sound of the front door shutting, because that was the moment I started to cry._

 _I screamed and screamed, suddenly knowing what true fear was, as I was forced into the car, strapped in with buckles that I was too young to know how to uncouple. And then I was being driven away from my home, the rug not just ripped, but burned beneath my three-year-old feet._

 _And then I was suddenly in the group home, sharing a room with six other girls, all several years older than me, all hostile and unwilling to welcome a new child into the fray. When I was too shy to ask to use the bathroom, and barely out of diapers as it was, I wet my pants. It took the staff half a day to even realise, and then they shouted at me for doing so. When one of the older girls took all but one of the chicken nuggets from my plate at dinnertime one day, I was too scared to tell the staff. It happened at almost every meal for days, until one day she was caught in the act and given nothing but a stern warning. That night, she came to my bedside and ripped Flopsie out of my hands. I never saw that stupid rabbit again._

 _I went days without eating, days without washing. I guess since I was the youngest there by far, they somehow forgot that I couldn't take care of myself, at just three years old. None of the other girls ever talked to me. None of the staff even seemed to notice me. When I cried, I cried in silence, after seeing one of the younger girls receive a punch to the face from the eldest girl, just for crying too loud. At the age of three, I learned the hard way that no matter how happy you are in life, however much you think you belong, in the end, everyone is alone._

Killian ran his hand up through his hair, blowing out a puff of air as the words he'd just read sunk in. He could already see that the life Emma had led was markedly removed from his own, and yet the feelings of loneliness and fear seemed somewhat shared. The visions he conjured up of a terrified three-year-old Emma in the circumstances described almost made him thankful that he had those extra two years of happiness, having been five years old before that same rug had been pulled out from under him.

He knew this was just the beginning of her tale. He had much left to read, and no doubt that the story would only get more ugly as it went along. But he daren't stop now. He owed it to her to live these memories with her, make himself better understand this woman who'd become his whole world, and then he might finally find the key to picking up the shattered pieces of her soul.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating. Thanks again for all the reviews and faves! Please let me know what you think of this one! Peace.**

Chapter 4

 _For months I lived under that boat, working just the same long hours as I had before Mother died. After that first night, I no longer cried over my loss, opting instead to numb myself to it. I became a picture of stoicism, barely speaking a word as I drifted through the days, though I would still often experience crippling pangs of fear when I lay alone at night in the pitch darkness and the cold._

 _I became known by the sailors who docked regularly in Lortuna as the son of the dead harlot; yes, apparently my mother had quite the reputation with these men. Some would drunkenly slur about the misfortune of my mother's passing, phrases such as "she was a bloody good fuck" tossed around in a casual manner, as if they were simply commenting on the weather. At first I would get angry at such comments. Once, I even struck out at a man who had drawled something similar in my ear, though his exact words I cannot recall past the red mist that clouded my vision. Before the man could withdraw his spittle-coated chin from its uncomfortable proximity to my face, I had whirled around and landed a solid punch to the wretch's jaw._

 _I quickly learned to hold my temper, after the beating that cur of man gave me, which left me unable to walk for the best part of a week. I still remember crawling through the mud, blood-covered and dragging my leg behind me as I slithered back under the canopy of my boat. From then on, I learned to ignore the poisonous remarks, holding my tongue and my fists, and quickly gaining the misinformed reputation that I was dumb and mute; a reputation I was more than happy to assume._

 _And so the months drew on, and nothing changed, other than the ever-increasing difficulty I had in crawling under my boat as my body continued to grow, despite the lack of food it received. And then one day, a man rolled into town, a ragged, tired, and drunken waste of a man. And that's the first time I heard the name Davy Jones thrown around. Word travelled amongst the sailors, passing by my delicate ears on its way, that the stinking sod was looking for the wife and child whom he'd abandoned almost a decade gone by._

 _In my ignorance, I never deigned to believe I was the child for whom he searched; my mother had never told me of my father's name, and as far as I was concerned, he was a dead man. So the day that the very same man approached me, a certain glint of wonder in his eyes as he stood before me, I continued to ignore him as I did every other man, woman, and child in the town._

 _"They say you're a mute, boy," he growled at me._

 _I said nothing. I continued to sweep the wooden decking at my feet._

 _"Your mother, boy," he said, "They say your mother was a whore, who went by the name of Lena. Lena Jones."_

 _I remember that familiar pang of anger rising up, and I remember forcing it down, just as I always did. My silence remained as I didn't even look at the man or acknowledge his presence. And that's when he became insistent, ripping the broom from my hand and forcing me to face him with a hand gripping the hair on my head._

 _"You might be mute, boy, but you can still nod your damn head," he grunted in my face, the alcohol smell smothering me like a fog, "Now answer the bloody question. Was your mother Lena Jones?"_

 _I growled out a quick "Yes," before wrenching myself from his grasp._

 _I watched as his eyes grew wide, and I forced myself to meet them resolutely._

 _"How old are you?" the man asked._

 _"Eight now, I think," I grunted._

 _The man suddenly stood straight, clearing his throat._

 _"What's your name?" he asked._

 _"Killian," I answered, the name unfamiliar after so long without saying or hearing it._

 _"Killian," he echoed, somewhat thoughtfully, "Well, boy, seems like I might be your father. My name's Davin, but people call me Davy."_

 _Those were the words that changed everything for me. In that moment, I know I should have been relieved, but I was angry. My father was supposed to be dead. He was supposed to be a strong and upstanding gentleman, not the drunken mess of a man who stood before me. I remember suddenly turning my back, ready to walk away, but he grabbed my arm and begged me to listen to him._

 _He asked me where I had been staying, and I told him. He promised things would get better from now on; he had a plan to sail his ship around all the realms and he wished for me to go with him. Yes, he told me that he had his own ship. He took me to see it that very night. We sat side-by-side on the docks, looking at said vessel, as he told me some fools tale that I was naïve enough to believe._

 _He told me that he had been the captain of one of the king's ships, and had been sent out on a voyage of great importance, just days after he learned of my mother's pregnancy. He claimed that he had planned to return in time for my birth, and how he'd been so very excited, hoping that I would be a boy who could become a sailor like his father. He had been on schedule to return home, but a vicious, unexpected storm left him shipwrecked and stranded alone on an island, hundreds of miles from home. He told me that he had remained there for years, praying to find a way back to my mother and I, and that, just weeks ago, he had been rescued by his old crew. They had welcomed him onto a new ship, relieved to have found their captain after so many years. He had sailed right back to Lortuna, and immediately sought out his wife and child, only to learn of her death just months prior._

 _He said he had lost hope of finding his child, and had taken to drinking the past few days, haunted by the blank face of the son he would never find. That was how he explained his appearance, likened to that of a street beggar rather than a captain. He told me that he heard word of a boy, the son of a whore with the same name as his late wife, who worked down by the docks day after day. And that is how he had found me._

 _The way he spoke was convincing; he had the fastidiousness of a well-practised liar, that was for sure. And I had fallen completely under his spell. He promised me that we would be together from now on. He would take me away on his ship the very next morning. He would teach me to sail, so that one day I could become a captain like him._

 _He told me fabricated stories of his time alone on the island, and of his days as a sea captain. He told me he had thought of his child, whose face he could only conjure with his imagination, every day, and his wife whom he had loved so dearly. I hung on his every word, feeling like I finally understood the truth of my father, and allowing myself to believe that I'd finally found my way out of the dark._

 _That night, we sneaked onto "his" ship, The Bonetta. He said we should sleep in the hold; that he didn't want to dirty the captain's quarters until he could bathe and change out of his ragged clothes. I suppose that should have been the first warning sign, the first indication that he was deceiving me. Indeed, over the years I have often questioned how I could have been so stupid as to believe his lies; I often forget that I was just a boy, forced to grow up so fast._

 _I fell asleep beside him, at last allowing myself to feel safe, content. It was such a deep sleep that I didn't hear him get up to leave, nor did I hear the men on deck try to snatch him after he'd slipped out to relieve himself. It was only when I was awoken the next morning to see four sailors standing over me, stern frowns across their faces and no sign of my father, that I began to see the truth._

 _I was hauled from the hold by the scruff of my neck, and placed on a wooden stool before the_ true _captain of The Bonetta. When I asked where my father was, they told me that the man, Davy Jones, was a fugitive. They had tried to arrest him last night, but the slippery scumbag had escaped, fleeing into the night without a second glance behind him at the boy he was once again leaving in his wake._

 _I didn't bother trying to argue that my father was no such man, as I felt all the lights switch on in my brain, and the broken pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. My hopes were dashed in a split second, as I realised the truth of my abandonment, and the cold, hard fact that I was once again alone and unwanted._

Emma took a pause in her reading to contemplate what she had just learned of her pirate's past. She knew those feelings of abandonment he had described. She could still feel them now, despite her parents' re-emergence in her life. It was a pain that she realised would never truly go away.

She found herself wondering if Killian ever found his father again. Davy Jones. The name was one she had heard many times in tales of pirates and the sea. The so-called guardian of the evil spirits of the sea. She wondered if Killian knew of the significance of his father's name in this world.

Deciding it was best to keep reading the book before asking the man, himself, any questions, she turned her attention back to the pages of script before her, and continued her journey into her pirate's past.

* * *

 _I stayed in that group home for the next four years. The first couple of years were hard, but I guess they helped me learn how to look after myself. By five years old, I had more street smarts than kids twice my age brought up in real families. As time passed, the older girls in the home were moved on, but I stayed, and soon I had been there the longest out of all of them._

 _By the time I was seven, I had learned to be the strongest, and I naturally grew into the role of kingpin. The operation of the home never got any better, but I learned to adapt. At last, I started to feel like I knew how life worked, and I was naïve enough to believe it would always be like that. I watched other kids go to foster homes, and while on the outside I scorned the idea, a part of me wished for a family of my own, just like I'd had when I was a baby. I guess, at that point, I hadn't given up hope that somewhere, there was a place for me._

 _Things changed again, around six months after I turned seven. They told me there was no longer room in the group home for me, but they'd managed to find a foster family. I was terrified. I hated living in the group home, but at least I understood how things worked there. The idea of going into a new place instilled a fear in me that I hadn't felt in a long time._

 _Days later, I was being introduced to my new family, a married couple named Karen and Terrence, and their three spoilt kids. At first it seemed OK. I had my own room, even if it was barely big enough for the bed, and more like a storage closet than a bedroom. Karen even gave me a bracelet with my name on it; it was a little tacky, made from a chain of cheap glass beads joined by a thick, black thread, but it was the first gift I'd received in years. When they were showing me around the house the first time, I noticed the kids had all kinds of toys and games. There was a drum kit set up in the garage and a whole host of bikes, scooters and skateboards strewn over the front lawn. It didn't seem so bad._

 _And then that evening I began to see the truth of it. They only had five chairs around their circular, wooden dinner table, so that night (and every night after) I was forced to stand and eat my meals from the kitchen countertop while the family enjoyed their meal together in the dining room. They insisted that mealtimes were "family time", and that I'd understand one day if I ever had a family of my own._

 _I was never allowed to play with any of the other kids' toys, and I was never given my own. If I tried to touch the scooters or skateboards, one of the other kids would invariably snatch it away from me or push me to the floor. Every weekend, Karen and Terrence would take their kids on long bike rides into the forest and camp overnight, leaving me at home to feed their youngest daughter's hamster._

 _When I opened my first ever pack lunch at school, and pulled out the crusts cut from the other kids' sandwiches, a banana that was well past ripe, completely brown and soft, and one of the cereal bars that one of the boys had thrown in the garbage yesterday when it wasn't the kind he liked (he wanted the chocolate chip ones, not the dried fruit ones), I realised how this was going to work. I then spotted my foster sister across the lunch hall, a fresh, crunchy apple in her hand and four beautifully square peanut butter sandwiches in front of her, crusts cut off. That marked the first day on which I stood up, and without touching my food, emptied my lunch box into the garbage can._

 _While my lunches at school were absent, back at home every mealtime was the same. I'd be given the chewy part of the meat that nobody wanted, or the part that was slightly burnt, the soggy, overcooked vegetables left on the kids' plates. On the days I was afforded the privilege of a shower, I had to be the last one in after the last drops of hot water ran dry, and I stood beneath the freezing cold stream of water, never truly having time to clean myself for fear of catching hypothermia._

 _Nine months I lasted there, never once complaining, barely speaking. I took the mocking from the three kids, never answering back, never making a move to respond. Until one day I snapped. The family had gone out for a picnic in the local park, leaving me behind, as usual. The sun was shining, and the outside was calling to me, so I went out to sit on the swing they had in the backyard. I was still there when they all returned home. Normally I wouldn't be allowed to play on it, but for some reason, on this day, I couldn't bring myself to care._

 _I swayed slowly back and forth on the swing, my toes never leaving the solid ground beneath me, receiving no joy from the movement but somehow revelling in the knowledge that I was breaking the rules. Jason, the eldest boy, aged fourteen and built like a bulldog, saw me on the swing from the kitchen window. He came charging outside, swearing like I'd only heard in R-rated movies, before coming up to scream in my face. I didn't move. I just glared back, completely impassive to his aggression. And then, next thing I knew, his fist had collided heavily with my jaw, and I tumbled backwards from the swing, landing hard on my back in the dirt with a resounding thud._

 _The other kids, Joseph and Serena, rushed out the back door, laughing as I fumbled to stand up. At first, I intended to back down, to run back inside and disappear like I always did. But as I saw the smirk on Jason's smug, piggy face, I felt something snap in my resolve. And before I knew it, I had tackled him to the ground, and I'd landed five or six punches to his face. Then suddenly, I was ripped back and away from him by Terrence, and thrown violently backwards into the support poles of the swing set. Next thing I felt was the sharp slap of the back of his hand upon my already bruised cheek, as he swore at me and called me all the names under the sun._

 _That evening I was back in the group home, nursing my blackening eye with the bag of frozen peas I had sneaked up to the bathroom, following a stern lecture from the social worker about how hitting other kids wouldn't be tolerated, and that if I ever wanted to have a proper family, I'd need to learn to behave myself and get along with people. I think that was the moment my trust in people, my belief that one day I wouldn't be abandoned and tossed away anymore, was completely destroyed; every ounce of hope that I'd had left had been crushed, just as easily as that cheap, glass bracelet as I brought my foot down upon it in indignation. In that moment, I felt more like that small, insignificant, worthless pile of broken glass lying haphazardly on the bathroom tiles, than the girl staring back at me in the mirror._

Despite the despair Killian felt upon thinking of Emma in such a state, he couldn't help the slight proud smile that crossed his face at the notion of her punching the daylights out of that lad. That was the Emma he knew; strong and unwilling to sit back and take the misfortune dealt out to her. But at seven years old, she was already showing signs of becoming the pained woman he knew today, and the tragedy of that was not lost on he of all people; it was a sign that the damage that led her to be so closed off, so untrusting, occurred at a much younger age than he had anticipated.

Somehow, that only strengthened his resolve to fix those trust issues, one reassuring word and one comforting action at a time. His eyes returned to the book, ready to dig deeper into the origins of his Swan.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews! Every one I get really does push me to write more and keeps me focussed, so you've all done a very good deed!**

 **MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING for this chapter: it's about to get super heavy. There are mild descriptions of sexual abuse of minors in this chapter. I hope I have handled it tastefully, and I haven't gone into much detail, but if this is something that might upset you then please consider giving this chapter a miss. However, if you choose to read on, prepare for a major angst fest!**

 **Please let me know what you think by clicking the review button after you've read! Thanks!**

Chapter 5

 _I do not know whether it was through pity, an intention to punish, or that The Bonetta was in genuine need of another cabin boy, but the revelation that my only living relative had abandoned me resulted in my immediate employment aboard the ship. I was the youngest of seven cabin boys, and by far the least experienced at sailing, having never stepped foot from the pontoon onto any vessel until the night before._

 _Four of the other cabin boys were, like myself, born of poorer families who had sent them out to work on the ships as a means of survival. The other two were born of rich, powerful families, and though they shared our quarters, they were a world apart from us. Our dirty, undersized, and threadbare clothes bore a stark contrast to their clean, well-fitting and seemingly newly bought attire. While we worked on the ship out of necessity, these boys were there by choice – at least, the choice of their fathers. Their time aboard the ship served as an introduction to a career in the navy. One day, it was expected that these boys would captain their own vessels, an aspiration well out of reach for the common boys; if we were lucky enough to survive long enough, and even if we achieved the highest level of skill as sailors, we would become seamen at best, a rank with little respect from those positioned in the higher ranks afforded to gentlemen._

 _The five poorer cabin boys lodged together in one room, sharing bunks of two, except for myself; with only four bunks available, a thin mattress on the floor served as my bed. It was hard and uncomfortable, but it was still a world better than the cold, dusty earth I'd slept on for the past years, and for a while I even felt safe. As for the two remaining boys, a healthy imbursement from their fathers bought them a separate room, larger than our dormitory, which they shared with only each other._

 _There was a particular rapport among the cabin boys that I came to understand quickly; the two richer boys looked after one another, avoiding communication with the poorer for the most part, and the poorer boys returned the sentiment, displaying equal apathy for the young men who would forever stand above them, purely as a result of circumstance. At mealtimes, the poorer lads, who were given far less food than the richer, would ensure that food was distributed equally between the five of us. If there were ever a day one of us was feeling overtired, or particularly hungry, the others would gladly sacrifice a part of their own meal to support him. You might suppose that the existence of such an agreement might result in one of us trying to take advantage, either by feigning illness or exhaustion to collect that little bit more food. Perhaps it was due to our shared upbringing of having so little, but none of us ever did. It was through these boys that I got my first taste of what would serve as my mantra over the years: the importance of good form._

 _At least as cabin boys, the difference between the rich and the poor extended only to attitude, apparel, and lodgings. Every cabin boy, no matter his background, was expected to perform the same duties, and was punished in the same manner for disobedience. We were worked hard, day and night when it was called for. While this was a source of great displeasure and grievance for the rich boys, for myself it was no different from the existence I'd had prior, where hard work was a way of life and the only means of survival. In some ways, working on the ship was an improvement; it was far warmer than my previous lodgings, and at least here I was provided with food, albeit it far too small portions to replace the energy expended through the work I carried out._

 _The first few months aboard the ship were the best I could remember of my life up to that point; I had what resembled a family, I was cared for and looked after. I was not out of poverty, and my life still had little meaning or purpose, but I was comfortable. I bonded with the other poor boys, particularly united by our shared animosity toward the other two cabin boys. I had fallen into what I believed was a solid, unshakeable routine._

 _During those first months, The Bonetta took only short voyages, perhaps only spending a week or two at most away from dry land. However, one day we were sent out on a longer journey, one that would last months. I can remember my excitement at the prospect of an extended trek, the chance to see more of the world beyond the seas surrounding Lortuna._

 _Such excitement was short-lived._

 _A month or so into the voyage, I started to notice certain members of the crew giving me looks I had never seen from them before; these men I had served for months had barely batted an eye at my existence. But now, their gazes lingered on me, a look in their eyes I couldn't recognise. The drunken conversations I'd overheard during my first months aboard the ship, all leeringly discussing the dalliances they'd had with whores the previous week, turned to grumbles of how long since they'd had a woman._

 _At nine years old, I was too young to connect the dots. I was content to remain oblivious, never caring to understand the implications of their words, and going about my life as usual. So it was a startling awakening to the gravity of their statements when one night, everything shifted, and I was jettisoned headfirst into a whole new and agonising reality._

 _Out of the many nights that followed in a similar fashion, it is that first night I remember most distinctly. I had barely drifted into sleep, when I was awoken by a clatter of footsteps as three members of the crew stormed into our dormitory, two grabbing me from my place on the floor, and the other holding a cutlass out at the other boys, now all awake and sitting up in their beds in shock. I could hear the third man growling at the other boys, threatening their demises should they breathe a word to the captain of this, before dragging me from the room. I tried to call out, but my cries were muffled by the filthy hand clasped over my mouth, as I was hauled along the corridor in hurried silence._

 _I was thrown brusquely into another dark room. As I looked about myself in fear, I noticed it was a storeroom, the one furthest from the sleeping quarters. I crawled backwards into the corner of the room, trying to hide behind the barrels stacked precariously around me. I can still feel that sharp clenching of fear in my chest as I think back upon that moment and those that followed. I can still hear my heartbeat in my ears, still smell the stagnant breath in my face as the first man loomed over me, licking his lips hungrily as he slammed me onto my stomach, ripping my breeches down my legs._

 _I often recount this moment in nightmares. In my mind, the men seemed like giants, sharp teeth and claws, which dug into my skin as they used my undersized body for their own sick pleasure. In reality, they were just weak, pathetic men with an inherent sickness and disregard for what was right and wrong in life. But at that time, in my eyes, they were unconquerable demons, far stronger than the malnourished whelp cowering before them._

 _That was the only night of which I truly remember the details, quickly learning to distance myself from the pain and the reality of the situation, to go somewhere else within my mind and escape their clutches. But that first night, I remained conscious; I was completely aware of every breath they took, every shuffle of their feet as they took it in turns to pilfer what they wanted from me, seemingly enjoying my tears and cries for help._

 _When it was over, their lust satiated, I lay curled up, my tears long since running dry and making way to numbness. That is until I was ripped from the wooden boards, and thrown against the wall, a knife pressed to my throat. The pain throughout my body had been incredible, casting a consuming dizziness over me as I felt warm blood trickle down the backs of my thighs. My eyes struggled to focus on the man glaring into my face, far too close for comfort, as he growled threats of what would happen to me if I breathed a word of what had just happened. When my mind was too slow to respond in fearful agreement, the knife was brought to my cheek, the point pressing a little too hard to the skin beneath my right eye. When I started to feel it draw blood, I managed to choke out a quiet, rasping affirmation, receiving a blackened, near-toothless grin from my assailant, and a whispered "Good boy"._

 _And then the knife was dragged sideways before he had fully pulled it away, slicing a clean, straight line from a point just beside my nose and down across the underside of my cheekbone. That scar remains on my skin to this day, as clear and imprinted into my psyche as the distinct memories of its origin._

 _I don't remember much of that night from that moment on. As far as I can tell, I lost consciousness at some point during the long, excruciating walk back to my dormitory. I awoke the next morning in a pool of blood, lain only half upon my mattress, and with the boys who'd come to resemble my family standing over me with defeated sympathy upon their faces._

 _Both those boys and I would hold our silence, even when the men returned every few nights and the ordeal started again. Not one of us dared breathe a word, knowing that the chances of us being believed were slim at best, and the whipping we would receive if accused of lying served as deterrent enough. On the nights I was taken, the boys would wait up for me, stood alert and ready to catch my wearied body as I stumbled through the door and help clean up the blood from whatever wounds I had sustained this time._

 _The months dragged on and I continued to work just as hard as I had before, forcing myself to ignore the agony of every step I took. I fell into a state of apathy towards my continuing existence, and an indifference to the seemingly interminable suffering imparted upon my aching body and mind._

The book landed in Emma's lap as her arms went limp, her head falling back against the wall above her headboard as she felt all the energy drained from her. The tears fell freely from her eyes as she tried to calm herself, reminding herself that the events she had just learned of were long in the past; Killian made it through, he was safe. But thoughts of the pirate as he was now only made the tears fall heavier. That distant sadness she sometimes saw in his impossibly blue eyes took on a deeper meaning, the way he would shudder slightly as her thumb traced the scar on his cheek, his eyes falling closed as if lost in a memory. She suddenly felt guilty for ever having touched it, knowing that each time she did, she was potentially conjuring up painful images of the past for him.

She suddenly had a desperate urge to call him, as if hearing his voice would reassure her that he was OK. But glancing at her phone, the time read one-thirty a.m. If he were asleep, she would surely wake him. The selfishness of that possibility stilled her hand as she placed her cell back on the nightstand, reassuring herself that these things had happened hundreds of years ago for him, and that even though the events seemed fresh to her, as far as he was concerned, nothing had changed since she had seen him just hours ago.

Pulling herself together and wiping the tears from her cheeks once more, she picked up the book again and prepared herself to continue.

* * *

 _I was sent to my third foster home when I was ten years old, and if I'd thought my second one had been bad, I was about to be shown the error in that notion. My new foster mother was an older lady, maybe in her late sixties, who insisted we only call her Mrs Jenner. She was kind enough, but had no idea, or no desire to understand how to look after children. Her health was deteriorating, and she could barely walk or even stand. She always looked to be worn out, and her lungs made this terrible rasping sound every time she breathed in – a result of the seemingly endless chain smoking and lack of any semblance of exercise for what might have been a lifetime._

 _She spent most of her days in her chair in the living room, smoking her cigarettes and watching some soap opera or another, with the expectation that I or one of the other kids whom she fostered would take care of the housework, grocery shopping and feeding ourselves. As far as living situations went, it suited us fine; we had almost endless freedom to come and go as we pleased, eat whatever we wanted to eat, whenever we wanted to eat it. We barely attended school, choosing instead to spend our days playing in the streets outside, unchallenged by a blissfully oblivious Mrs Jenner._

 _Down the street was a corner store where Mrs Jenner had been sending her foster kids for years, usually to pick up wine and cigarettes. I learned quickly that the guy behind the register was more than happy to sell me those same items, either trusting my claim that they were for Mrs Jenner herself, or not caring enough to check. If nothing else, this power bought me teenage friends in the neighbourhood, and on the occasions when I chose to sell my hoard rather than give it away or drink and smoke it myself (because what else was there to do instead of school?), it provided me with a small source of income. I guess it became kind of a business, and I remember I had a big envelope hidden under my mattress filled with money. With nothing particularly to spend it on, I was more than happy to watch the pile of cash grow. It must only have been a couple of hundred dollars in there at its most full, but at the age I was, I felt like a billionaire._

 _I suppose that in the daytime I had no worries. I wish I could say the same for the night times._

 _There were four of us in Mrs Jenner's care, all unrelated and all orphaned – two boys, James and Darren, both fifteen years old, six-year-old Katie, and my ten-year-old self. I saw little of James and Darren during the day; as far as I knew they were out with their friends, smoking pot and taking god knew what else (judging by the track marks on their arms). But I took Katie under my wing; the helpless little girl reminded me of myself at that age, boisterous on the surface but lonely and terrified underneath. I looked after her in all the ways I could. I fed her, played with her, taught her to read and write, fixed her up when she fell and scraped her knees. I started to use my money stash to buy her new clothes, new toys. Even at that age, young as I was, I knew the path I had begun to head down would only lead to trouble, and I made it my mission to keep her from falling down the same course. In a way, she gave me a purpose in life, a reason to keep fighting on. But while on the one hand she helped to fix me for a while, she was also my downfall, or rather, my need to protect her was my downfall._

 _I had only been at the new house for a few months the first night I was visited by James and Darren. Katie and I slept in a separate room to the boys, and in the short time I had been there, my bond with Katie had grown unbreakable, the girl bringing an immediate light into my days. She was the little sister I had always dreamed of having. That night, the two boys crept into our room, so quietly that if I'd been asleep they probably wouldn't have woken me, but this night I was already awake. I sat upright in bed as the two figures, so much bigger than me, crossed the threshold into our room and closed the door behind them silently._

 _And then suddenly they were at my bedside, Darren roughly shoving his hand over my mouth and slamming my head back to the pillow as James yanked the covers from my body. I tried to fight, I struggled so hard and began to scream, but it was too muffled by sweaty, salty fingers on my lips. I wriggled and kicked, my fear driving me on, until Darren whispered so calmly, so impassively, in my ear._

 _"Shut the fuck up, or we'll do the same to her."_

 _And that stopped me. It had me lying, completely still and tense as a bowstring, as I felt James slide my pyjama pants from my legs and lay his hands on my shaking skin. Somehow, I knew what was about to happen; I'd seen this kind of thing in movies. But nothing prepared me for the pain. I remember how it forced tears from my eyes, but I never made a sound, never lifted a finger to fight back, thinking only of how I needed to protect that little girl who had become my purpose. The thought of her feeling this same terror and ache I was feeling was enough to strengthen my resolve, keep me silent, until after what seemed like forever, it was over._

 _I had thought that Katie had been asleep, until the next day she came to me and asked my why James and Darren had been in our room. The fear of her finding out just what they had been doing was almost as intense as the terror I'd felt the night before. So I told her that if they ever came in again, that she was to hide her head under the pillow and to stay there until they'd gone. I think she must have seen the urgency and desperation in my eyes, as she nodded her little head in agreement._

 _Each night they came back. Every single night. Sometimes they had friends with them, always boys and always older and stronger than I was. Usually stinking of cigarette smoke and beer, all young men, inexperienced and over-excited about the opportunity presented before them. Because that's all I was: an opportunity. Unfeeling, unmoving, completely compliant and emotionless, because that was the only way I could hold back the screaming in my head. And when they left each night, sometimes hours later, leaving me cold and boneless as I stared unseeingly at the ceiling, I felt relief. Not that they had stopped for the night, (the knowledge they would be back far too soon kept me from feeling and joy at the short reprieve), but that they hadn't touched Katie._

Killian felt physically sick at the words he'd just read. He knew all too well the emotional scarring such abuse inflicted upon a child, and reading of Emma's experiences also brought his own to the forefront of his memory. Such different circumstances had existed between Emma and him, yet the fear, the pain, was the same. And while he detested what had happened to him with every bone in his body, at least in some way it brought him closer to her; if he hadn't had such experiences, he knew he would not fully understand what she had been through. He found himself almost thankful for that. Almost.

He pulled his rum flask from the pocket of his jacket, where it lay over the back of his desk chair, and took a deep swill of the burning liquid. Choosing to keep the drink in his hand to help him through the rest of her story, he braced himself as his eyes turned back to the page.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 _That voyage ended up taking fourteen months to complete, and my abusers continued to visit me regularly throughout. I felt trapped and subdued, with no way out of the mess I'd fallen into. Occasionally, I was afforded some relief when we would dock into the harbour of some unfamiliar land, sometimes stopping for days at a time. I lived for these instances; the majority of the crew would disappear onto dry land, seeking out the arms of the willing women awaiting them there. It gave me some rest from the torment, and sometimes I would be left alone for weeks at a time after those short stops. But at the forefront of my mind, I always knew they'd return, and even those short reprieves were tainted by my fear as I waited for the night they'd choose to visit me again. They were always in my head, coiled like snakes and ready to strike. I couldn't turn my back. I couldn't escape. I could only wait._

 _By a year into the journey, I'd given up hope that my life might get any better. I re-entered that state of near-silence I'd endured after my mother died, choosing only to speak when it was absolutely necessary to avoid punishment. In return, nobody spoke to me unless to bark out an order, even the other boys distanced themselves from me. The guilt I'd originally seen in their eyes started to fade, as they all grew accustomed to the situation. They seemed to accept it after a while, knowing it was something they could not change, so should not allow it to worry them excessively. Despite being surrounded by countless other people, I felt just as alone as I always had._

 _And then one day, thirteen months into our journey, a terrible storm rolled through, worse than any we had yet weathered. It was all hands on deck to battle the winds and clear the icy sea and rainwater that washed over us. The cabin boys were sent to run with buckets between the hold and the edge of the ship, emptying the water that had begun to collect below deck. The wind was howling, and the rain so heavy that it seemed to burn slightly as it pelted down sharply on our skin, and masked our vision. It was cold and chaotic, the wild rocking of the ship throwing us around, and I had almost been sure that this was the end. Looking back, it is startling that at ten years old, it had been a notion that I welcomed; among the fear and the anarchy around me, I was strangely at peace knowing that this storm might just free me from the anguish of my life._

 _And it wasn't until I'd fallen to that lowest point, that a glimmer of hope beckoned me._

 _I remember I had been following one of the older boys, one of the rich lads, as we ran up the steps onto deck to empty our buckets. I watched as he reached the railings, and tilted his bucket over, just as a gust of wind thrust the ship sharply to the side. The boy was thrown from the decking, his scream muted by the wind and the rain, as he fell into the black, frigid depths._

 _While I cared little for my own life, a part of me awoke at the threat to someone else's, and I broke my self-imposed silence to scream for help from the older men rushing around me. But if they could hear me, they had no interest in my cries. Realising that I'd be receiving no help, and without much consideration towards my actions, I ran to the edge of the ship. I pulled loose a rope, which was tied at one end to a part of the mast, and secured it around my waist tightly. I snatched up a small buoy from the pile stacked up near one of the masts._

 _Despite my inability to swim competently, I don't remember feeling any fear, as I threw myself over the railings and into the water. But I do remember the feeling of the icy blanket that smothered me, knocking the air from my lungs and seeping immediately into my bones, as I splashed into the fierce depths. At first I couldn't see the boy, and I started to wonder what had possessed me to follow him when chance dictated that he had probably perished already._

 _And then I saw him, thrashing about and struggling to keep above the crushing waves. Holding on as tightly as I could to the buoy, the only thing preventing the sea from swallowing me whole, I kicked my legs as hard as I could. It seemed to take a lifetime to reach him, but reach him I did, and I remember the mix of hope and fear in his eyes as he reached out to me, clinging to me for dear life._

 _Knowing there was no way we could pull ourselves back in, we waited, battling to stay afloat as the waves threw us around, as if it was intent on dragging us down into its depths with an insatiable hunger. And what felt like hours later, the storm subsided, and all we could do was cling on to the buoy, exhaustion and a bone-deep chill preventing us from calling out or moving._

 _Eventually we were spotted by crew on the deck and hauled back onto the ship by the rope around my waist, and we both laid on deck as blankets were thrown over us. I remember looking over to the other boy just as he looked over at me. The gratitude in his eyes was a sentiment I had never seen directed at me, and for the first time in a very long time, I felt myself smile ever so slightly._

 _Later, when we had both been allowed to rest, he came to the door of my dormitory where I lay alone on my makeshift bed. He let himself in and sat beside me as I pushed myself to sit. "Your name is Killian," were the first words he ever said to me. I nodded, and he told me his name was Liam. He told me how thankful he was that I'd jumped in to save him. How he owed me his life. I didn't say a word back to him, but he didn't ask why. Instead, he got to his feet, and bent down to rest a hand on my shoulder._

 _"I'll see you later, Killian," he said, and then he smiled before leaving me alone in the room._

 _Part of me hoped that the men wouldn't come that night, and that I'd at least be allowed to recover from the ordeal. The cold had not yet fully left my bones, and my entire body ached. But sure enough, after night fell, the men were at my bedside, and I was being dragged to that painfully familiar room._

 _It had been a long time since I'd collapsed on my way back to my room, but the sheer exhaustion in my bones that night left me crumpled in the corridor outside our dormitory, shaking and cold. I think the worst part was that for a while I'd thought I'd be free. But the death I was sure had been coming in that storm had never arrived, and my hopes had been dashed. I was still here, and nothing had changed._

 _And then I heard footsteps, and then a quiet, curiosity-filled call of my name. Opening my eyes, I saw Liam walking quickly towards me, before he fell to his knees beside me with a hand on my back and real, genuine concern in his eyes. "Killian, what happened?" he asked me. I don't know if he truly expected a verbal answer, but the only response I gave him was to screw my eyes shut._

 _And then I was being lifted to stand, supported under my arms as Liam's larger body dragged mine along beside him. And then I was being lowered onto something soft. A proper bed – Liam's bed. And he was crouched beside me, and asking me what had happened. When I didn't answer, he stood and left the room, calling out that he'd be right back._

 _The warmth and comfort of the bed had started to lull me to sleep, when Liam suddenly stormed back in, anger in his eyes. But the anger dissipated as his gaze fell back upon me, and all I could see was pity. He came to crouch beside me again._

 _"Killian, why didn't you tell anyone?" he asked me, his tone nothing but caring and filled with worry, and I immediately wondered how he had found out. As if sensing my question, he explained how he had spoken to the boys in the other dormitory, and after the exchange of a certain number of coins, they had eventually told him what had been occurring. Liam told me how, in the morning, he would go to the captain and tell him what had been happening. I remember thinking I should be scared of such a prospect, but all I felt was relief. There was something about this boy, who could not have been older than fifteen; something that told me I could trust him, and that he would take care of me._

 _After that night, Liam insisted I move my bedspread to the floor beside his own. The three men, whose names I had been convinced to share through Liam's gentle insistence, were punished on deck with lashings from the cat o' nine tails. I watched as each strike of the ropes upon their backs created a new welt, blood dripping lazily from the broken skin, and I felt absolutely nothing. No relief, no justice, no satisfaction. Nothing._

 _A week later, Liam told me he had written to his father, telling him of how I'd saved his life, and of the struggles I had been facing on the ship. The gentleman's reply had said that, if I wished, I would go back to their house after the voyage, where Liam would return to finish his studies. To pay the debt of his son's life, his father intended to take me in and provide an education. But in actuality, what I would receive would be so much more._

For the first time since starting Killian's story, Emma felt the first glimmer of hope. Killian had never mentioned that the brother, whom he had loved so dearly and spoke of so fondly, was not his true brother, but it only filled her with an optimism that Killian's story might become lighter from here on out. From the stories he had told her of Liam, she knew they had been inseparable, and she found comfort in knowing that at this point in his story, after everything he'd faced, the two had finally met. That scared, lonely little boy might, at last, know love.

* * *

 _Darren and James' visits went on for months, and I never breathed a word. I learned to distance myself from it, which was made simpler by my resolve to not fight back. It was almost easy, lying there unmoving, unfeeling, unseeing. I would replay scenes from movies in my head or try to recite chapters from books I had read. It worked as a good distraction from the reality of what was happening to my body. By not acknowledging what they were doing to me, it just became…normal._

 _The disruption their actions caused on my sleeping pattern meant that I started to spend most days sleeping. I would make sure Katie was close by, make sure she had toys to keep her occupied and food to eat, and I'd allow myself to drift off beside her. Sleep was a welcome reprieve from the torment I felt when I was awake. I also found that the beers I bought from the corner store worked well to dull my thoughts, despite the bitter taste, and they became a vital part of my daily routine. While it was dysfunctional at best, my life ran like a machine, rarely any variation to my day-to-day activities, and my night times filled with the same daydreams to block out my senses._

 _So when I was awoken from one of those daydreams one night by Katie's screaming from the bed across the room, it took me a moment to realise what was going on. James and Darren had brought another guy with them tonight, and he had headed straight for the smaller girl. I heard Darren say something to the guy about leaving the smaller one alone, but he didn't try to argue when the guy brushed him off._

 _In the few seconds it took my brain to wake up, the guy had already ripped the sheets away from Katie, and was looming over her shaking, crying frame. And then, suddenly, my body woke up, and I launched myself past my startled foster brothers, colliding with the other guy full force and smashing him against the wall. He quickly turned on me, throwing me down to the floor at his feet and kicking me hard in the face._

 _I couldn't even feel the pain, but the feeling of the blood rolling down from my nose and over my lips only served to make me angrier. I reached for the small, wooden box I'd bought for Katie's birthday last week from where it lay under her bed, and in seconds, I was back on my feet and slamming the hard object against his cheek. He reeled back for a second, before his head whipped around to face me again, and the fury in his eyes had me taking a step backward. But I wasn't quick enough, as he hurled himself into me, knocking me back to the floor and crushing me under his weight, throwing punch after punch into my face._

 _He was quickly pulled back and away by James and Darren, who dragged him from the room and out of the house without so much as a word. I curled up on the floor, bruised and bloodied, and for the first time, in a long time, I began to feel. And I cried._

 _I only stopped when I felt Katie curl herself up against me, clinging onto me in scared silence. I turned to look at her, and the realisation that they'd almost done to her what I had allowed them to do to me, filled me with a new sense of resolve. Enough was enough._

 _The next morning, I ran down to the payphone on the corner, and I called social services. I told them everything, knowing that my bruised face would be evidence enough. Within hours, I was being taken to a new group home. I begged them to let Katie come with me, but she was taken directly to another foster home, and I prayed that they would take care of her. She cried and screamed when they dragged her away from me, and I desperately tried to reassure her that everything would be OK from now on, and that somehow I'd see her soon. But I never saw her again after that, and I still wonder what happened to her. I just hope it was better than the years that followed for me._

 _The second I arrived at the new home, I knew that I'd had enough of the system. I was back to being invisible to the staff and intimidated by the older kids. The freedom I'd had at Mrs Jenner's was a distant memory, as I was made to go back to school and given strict curfews. I just wanted out._

 _I ran away just days after I moved in, and that's when I first met Lily, at the store where I was trying to steal some pop tarts. She got me out of trouble when I almost got caught, and she gave me her dad's credit card. Aside from Katie, she was the closest thing I'd found to a friend, even for the short time I knew her. Looking back, knowing what I know now, I wish I'd given her more of a chance._

 _At first she'd made me believe she was in the foster system, and I'd thought that maybe she was someone who understood what I'd been through. But when her adoptive father found us after we broke into their summerhouse, I felt betrayed and lied to. She may not have been with her real parents, but she hadn't had the same experiences I'd had; she'd had a constant family for her entire life, and one that cared enough about her to come and find her when she ran away. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, her betrayal wasn't as great as I'd thought at the time. Knowing now where Lily had really come from, I wish I hadn't been so stubborn._

 _I was no more forgiving when I met her again in my next foster home. This foster home, at long last, was a really, truly good one. They were nice people, with nice kids, with a nice house. They welcomed me in as one of their own, allowing me to use their stuff, giving me my own, big room. They let me eat the same meals that they ate, and allowed me to sit at the dinner table with them. When one of their sons made a snide remark, he was chastised and forced to apologise. I received a level of respect that I'd never dreamed of being given. They even promised to take me camping, and I was already packing for the trip, when Lily showed up again._

 _Of course, I blamed her when it broke down. She'd turned up at the house after stealing from a store, and when my foster parents found out that the police were after her, they were angry with me for allowing Lily in the house. They were furious that I'd endangered their real kids, and the implication that I was never really a part of that family was one I was all too familiar with. The first chance I'd ever had at a real, caring family, and she'd taken it from me, as I realised that not this family, nor any other, would ever truly see me as their own._

 _I was too self-absorbed at that age to worry about the state Lily had gotten herself into, more concerned with self-preservation and self-pity. I wish I'd not pushed her away; she was clearly in a bad place at that time, and I more than anyone should've seen how she just needed a friend. But I guess, with all I'd been through, I needed to look out for myself. Caring for other people had only ever worked out badly for me._

 _After telling Lily that I wanted nothing more to do with her, and pushing away the family when they tried to bring me home, I was placed into another group home._

 _And even if just for a short time, things were about to get a little better._

Killian didn't know whether to be pleased or anxious at her choice of words; the knowledge that some happiness was to follow, was somewhat overshadowed by the phrase "just for a short time". He found himself glad, at least, that she'd managed to get herself out of the situation with her foster brothers, and also managed to protect that little girl. He swore to himself internally, that one day he would find those two boys, who would now be men in their thirties judging by Emma's current age. He would find them, and he'd rip their hands from their wrists for ever laying so much as a finger on his Swan.

For now, though, he had more reading to do, and more to discover about the woman he loved.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Sorry it has taken a while to get this** **chapter up...life is catching up with me and I've been super busy. Thanks as always for the reviews and faves, I really do appreciate them. Sorry that I haven't had time to reply to individual reviews, but please know that I am really very grateful to you all for taking the time to let me know your thoughts!**

 **Without further ado, here's chapter 7! Hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 7

 _The butler from Liam's father's household arrived in Lortuna to pick us up the same day that The Bonetta docked after our fourteen-month-long voyage. He introduced himself as Alfred. He was an older man, perhaps in his late sixties, with grey hair that did not cover the top of his head, but grew in a ring around the back of his skull at the height of his ears. His suit was clean and pressed, his shoes more shiny than any I'd ever seen. He spoke like a gentleman, and shook my hand in greeting._

 _Liam introduced me as I maintained my silence; even if I wished to have spoken, I would not have known what to say. My common, uneducated lilt at that time bore a stark contrast to the sophisticated brogue this man spoke with. It was the same way Liam talked, only I hadn't noticed it until that point. The realisation made me feel somewhat uncomfortable, as it highlighted the disparity in our positions in life._

 _When Alfred showed us to the horse-drawn carriage, that discomfort only grew, and mixed with a ripe sense of awe; I had only dreamed of travelling in such a manner, having seen such vessels only from a distance, and only carrying the very wealthy. On the ride to Liam's home, he and Alfred spoke animatedly, but the words were lost to my ears as I watched the scenery pass by outside my window._

 _I had never been outside of Lortuna on land before, but as the familiar, busy streets faded into longer, emptier roads, and I glimpsed my first view of farming fields and forests, I found it hard to believe I was on the same planet I had lived on all this time. The hours passed and we travelled further and further into the rolling hills, until finally we approached the road leading up to the house._

 _If I'd thought I had been in awe before, I was completely blown out of the water when the house came into view. It was the biggest house I'd ever seen, with at least five floors and stark white walls stretching far to the left and right, with perhaps twenty windows alone on each floor. I remember thinking that it could have housed the entire crew of The Bonetta ten times over, at least._

 _Liam's father, Harold, was stood at the front door to greet us when the carriage rolled to a stop. Liam was out of the door before the wheels had even stopped moving, rushing across the gravel to greet his father in a fierce hug. I watched, unblinking, as his father crushed his son to his chest, such relief on his face, and I realised I had never seen such an exchange between a parent and child before. It filled me with a foreign sense of warmth, but also reminded me of the cold absence of such sentiments in my own life._

 _"Don't worry, lad," Alfred said to me, and I realised he'd been watching me from his seat across from mine, "Harold is a good man. You'll get along fine here."_

 _Then he clapped me on the shoulder, and smiled encouragingly as he herded me gently from the carriage. The sound of my feet crunching onto the gravel drew the father-son couple's attention, as they fell away from each other and Liam returned to my side. He said nothing, only smiling at me and wrapping an arm across my shoulders, as he guided me over to his father._

 _I could see the man looking me up and down, taking in my thin and scruffy appearance, and I felt like a black mark on his white, pristine walls._

 _"You must be Killian," he said to me, his face betraying no emotion. I nodded, still unable to find my voice, "My name is Harold Addair. My son says you saved his life, is that right, boy?"_

 _"He did, father," Liam spoke up, somehow sensing that I wasn't ready to speak._

 _Harold seemed to accept my state of silence, nodding first at his son, then at me._

 _"Well, son," he said, and I remember my confusion at the pronoun, "you will always be welcome in this house. Let's get you cleaned up and show you to your room."_

 _I wanted to say thank you, but words evaded me still, as Alfred placed a hand on my shoulder and guided me past Harold and up to the front door. I remember looking back at Liam just as I entered the doorway, and the encouraging grin he threw back at me did help to settle my nerves somewhat._

 _I was introduced to the other servants as I was guided through the house and up a number of staircases. The inside of the building was grander than any I'd ever seen, the ceilings tall, floors unmarked, and enormous oil paintings hung proudly on every wall. It was a whole other world for me._

 _We came to a corridor of tall, wooden doors, and stopped at one no different than the others. Alfred pushed the door open and gestured to the inside._

 _"This is your room," he said._

 _My mouth dropped open as I took in my surroundings. There was a real, actual wooden bed, with a mattress and a pillow and clean, white sheets. There was a large, wooden closet, and through the doors that had been left open, I could see multiple shirts and jackets. There was a huge window looking out over the gardens, which seemed to stretch for miles. There was an oak desk in the corner, with a pile of notebooks, inkpots and quills._

 _"Why don't you settle yourself in, and I'll go and prepare you a bath. You can go and choose some clothes from your closet," Alfred said after a while._

 _"Those…those are my clothes?" I asked him, using my voice for the first time that day._

 _Alfred just smiled at me, and said, "Welcome to the family, lad," before disappearing off down the hallway and leaving me alone with my astonishment._

 _By the time I retired to my bed that night, I felt cleaner and had a fuller belly than I'd ever had before. Over dinner in the regally decorated dining room, Liam's father told me how after the summer had ended, I would be schooled in the house with Liam's cousins, who would come to stay over the autumn, winter and spring months. Over the summer, Liam was to teach me to read and write in preparation, and show me the ways of a gentleman._

 _That summer, Liam and I grew close. We spent most of every day together, he teaching me the things I had never learned in my younger years, and I telling him stories of Lortuna. He told me of his mother's death a number of years ago, and how terrified he'd been, and I opened up to him about my own mother's death. I was never afraid to speak to Liam, to tell him my worries and fears. And soon, I felt confident enough to speak to others too, engaging in long conversations with Alfred and Harold. I could tell Liam's father had taken a shine to me. With my growing confidence, the boisterous nature that I'd kept repressed for years finally started to come through, and Harold once said I reminded him of himself as a boy. One day, just months after I arrived, he said I could call him "Father" if I wished, and he, in turn, would consider me his son. I was all too happy to oblige, and Harold even went as far as to adopt me into the family, giving me his own surname. I became known officially as Killian Addair._

 _When we weren't studying, Liam and I would explore the countryside around the manor house. He taught me to ride horses and to fish in the streams. He taught me fencing, a skill that quickly morphed into sword fighting with wooden sticks when we were unsupervised in the woods. I became the brother he'd never had, and he mine._

 _At last I had a family, and one that truly cared for me. I felt like I belonged._

 _After the summer ended, and Liam was sent away to school, things took a slight turn for the worse. Liam's two cousins, Arthur and Paul, aged fourteen and thirteen respectively, moved in during the autumn to be schooled alongside me. The boys did not take kindly to me, or my relationship with their cousin and uncle, and they never missed an opportunity to remind me of my true foundations. Harold had warned me that his nephews were troublesome, and that should I have any problems with them, I was to tell him immediately._

 _Upon my first meeting with Arthur, the boy only a few years my senior, but strong and round from a short life of gluttony, I was starkly informed where the power would lie in our relationship. His fat fingers tightened around my throat as he pushed me against the wall and harshly reminded me that I was nothing but the dirt on the soles of his shoes, and that everything I had gained here could be taken away just as easily. He advised me that if I were to breathe a word against he or his brother, things could become extremely unpleasant for me; that his father, Harold's older brother, would see to it that I was returned to the squalor I had crawled from, and Harold wouldn't be able to do a thing to stop it. The threat of being forced to return to that life was enough to urge me to hold my tongue._

 _Through the day, during the hours we spent learning, the boys never spoke a word to me, only sniggering when I struggled to solve problems or questions with answers that were obvious to them, having at least ten years of education more than I'd had. But at other times, when I would be sat in my room with a book to practise my reading, or sat under a tree in the garden, they would find me. They would torment and tease me, call me names, and kick and punch me when I didn't respond. It was all to easy to slip into my habit of indifference, taking the hits that were dealt out to me and never lifting a finger to fight back, never breathing a word in defence of myself._

 _It only got worse when Harold was called away on urgent business, expecting to be gone for weeks, if not months. Without my surrogate father present, the boys' taunting became relentless, and I retreated further and further back into my shell._

 _Upon Liam's return the following summer, the boys were sent back to their own parents. He could immediately see the difference in my behaviour; he somehow knew straight away that something was wrong. It took me days to open up to him, not wishing to burden him, and worrying for my own safety should the boys find out that I had blown the whistle on them. But eventually, I told Liam everything, begging him not to tell his father._

 _He promised that his father wouldn't find out. Instead, we spent that summer together, Liam teaching me to fight. He reassured me that I was his brother and that, no matter what those boys told me, I would always be cared for._

 _At the end of that summer, Liam was sent away again, this time to join a new ship in the rank of seaman. In three years time he expected to progress to lieutenant, and from there he would continue to climb the ranks, until one day, he would captain his own ship. He promised that once he had become a captain, I would be his lieutenant, and then we would never be separated._

 _That notion gave me just enough hope to get through the years that followed, as Arthur and Paul continued their mistreatment. And every few months, Liam would return with stories of his voyages, and I would dream of the day I would join him, and explore the world at his side._

Emma smiled, finally able to picture Killian as the mischievous little boy she had always imagined he had been, sword fighting and exploring. The quiet, reserved little boy she had read bout until now was a far cry from the Killian she knew today, and she had struggled to see them as one in the same. Or maybe it was just that it hurt to do so, the thought of her Killian in such dire straits was one she could not easily stomach.

His strong will to ignore the bullies and rise above them was something she could definitely empathise with, having been on the receiving end of such victimisation herself. Perhaps she and Killian shared much more than she had thought.

* * *

 _This group home was where I first met Ingrid, where she was the primary social worker. The minute I arrived, I was met by glares from the other kids there, and I knew it was going to be just another repeat of the hostility I'd found in every group home to date. But Ingrid seemed to really care about me, more than she cared about the other kids. Looking back, of course I should've seen something strange about that, but I guess my deprivation of any kind of special treatment or attention until that point in my life just made me happy to receive it._

 _She was the closest thing I'd had to a mom since my first family sent me back, and though her motives might have been a little…backwards, I think she really did love and care about me. When she told me she planned to adopt me, there was a voice in my head telling me it was too good to be true. But the sincerity in her eyes, the promise in the way she spoke, actually made me believe that things would finally get better for me. For those few hours I'd been so happy._

 _And then I threw it all away again. I know now that I should have believed her when she told me about magic, about my powers. But in the world I was brought up in, and the life I'd led which taught me never to trust anyone, how could I have believed her? When she'd pushed me to use my magic to save myself from an oncoming car, I thought she was insane. And that became my explanation for why she'd treated me like I was special; she would have to have been crazy to care about me._

 _I ran. When social services found me, I told them what she had tried to do, and I was once again rehomed, into yet another group home. And it was no different from the others._

 _This group home was an all-girls home. Apparently they thought my run-in with Ingrid was a figment of my imagination; a result of my traumatic experience at Mrs Jenner's, and the best course of action would be to keep me away from any perceived threats. In other words, they wanted to keep me away from boys. I can't say I was too upset about that; I knew not all boys were like Darren and James, but they certainly tended to use their fists before their words, and I'd taken enough punches to last me a lifetime._

 _Unfortunately, I came to learn that the methods girls employed to make you feel worthless resulted in a lot worse than a bruise._

 _There were two other girls in the home that were in the same grade as I was. They were identical twins, both tall with dark hair, and both popular at school. They'd been in the home for years now, and the place ran according to their whims and needs. Their names were Kendra and Clarice, and I was never able to (or never cared to) tell which was which. They were more-or-less the same person anyway, inseparable and identical not only in looks, but mannerisms, attitude and elevated self-assuredness._

 _I shared a room with both girls, much to their distaste, and the first night I spent at the home, they decided it would be hilarious to pour water over me and make it look like I'd wet the bed. The staff chastised me, and the other girls laughed. It only got worse on my first day of school the following day, when I discovered I was in the same class as the twins. The rumour of my supposed bedwetting spread around fast, and by the end of the day, every time I made eye contact with anyone in the class, I would receive a snigger. I heard their muffled whispers about me, though I acted as though I didn't._

 _When we came back in from lunch, and I sat down on my chair only to find that someone had poured water onto the seat, I felt too humiliated to stand back up and accuse the twins. So I spent the afternoon in a wet chair, hoping that it might somehow dry before I was forced to stand up again. At the end of the day, I planned to be the last to get up from my seat, waiting for everyone to leave before I stood in the hope that nobody would notice. However, I was not so lucky, as the twins made sure that everyone in the class knew to stay behind at the end of the day until I'd gotten up from my chair._

 _I had never felt humiliation like it, as the entire class burst into laughter upon seeing the faked evidence of my "accident". I didn't even bother trying to defend myself as I collected my bag and left as quickly as I could. I became known by the very imaginative nickname "Emma Peepants". It was a name that stuck with me from that day, aged twelve, for the next three years._

 _They made sure that I made no friends, the threat of the same humiliation a very real danger to anyone who thought it a good idea to even talk to me. One girl did try, perhaps feeling sorry for me. Her name was Nina, and from what I understood, she had been the brunt of the hounding before I arrived on the scene. One day, she came and sat by me at lunch, at the table I usually sat at alone. She offered me half of her cupcake, but I refused it, not quite trusting that it hadn't been poisoned or something._

 _She spent the whole of that lunchtime talking to me, and I started to hope that I might have found a friend. But when, during phys ed, the twins snuck into the locker room and stole both mine and Nina's clothes, she learned the error of her ways. If that hadn't been enough, I came across the twins after school, having cornered poor Nina in an alleyway and looming menacingly over her shorter, slightly over-weight form. Lucky for Nina, my interruption of the confrontation allowed her to slip away, as Kendra and Clarice turned their attention on me after my shout to leave the poor kid alone._

 _The looks on both their faces, the mixture of irritation and fury, was enough to have me high-tailing it out of that alleyway and down the street, the two of them hot on my heels. I managed to keep ahead of them for a while, but eventually they caught up, tackling me to the hard concrete. I remember the thump as my face hit the floor, and the pain shooting through my eye socket. But it was the crack of my arm as I landed on it awkwardly that I remember most clearly, followed by the pain that shot through me._

 _I was curled on the floor, barely holding back the screams as my arm lay awkwardly at my side. Realising what had happened, the twins were quick to jump to their feet, with one of them dealing a swift kick to my ribs, before the pair of them sprinted away down the street before anyone could hear my cries._

 _I was found a little while later by an elderly couple out walking their dog. I'd almost passed out from the pain at that point, and I only vaguely remember the ambulance ride to the hospital. My first clear memory after that was waking up in the hospital after the surgery on my arm, and there being nobody there waiting for me. I was kept in hospital for three days after that, and not once did anyone from the group home come and visit me. The staff knew I was there, but only when it was time for me to be discharged did they bother showing up._

 _My arm was in a cast for weeks, with a small, metal structure around my forearm to support the crushed bones; the twins quickly discovered the fun of pulling me around by the metal, seeming to enjoy my efforts not to alert them to the pain it caused. I struggled to eat, unable to hold a knife and fork at the same time. When Kendra was asked to help me cut up my food, she took great pleasure in dropping each slice on the floor after she'd cut it, or putting them in her mouth "to test the size was right", before spitting them back onto my plate. Consequently, I barely ate for a number of weeks, feigning stomach aches when the staff asked why I wasn't touching the food on my plate._

 _The bullying got worse with each year that passed, as Kendra and Clarice gained a larger group of friends. Almost every day after school, I was followed home by an ever-increasing number of girls. If I was lucky, they'd only taunt me, but some days saw them dragging me into alleyways or abandoned car parks, just to see who could land the punch that made me cry out the loudest._

 _I started to truly believe the words they told me about my worthless existence. I remember the first time I brought the blade of the crappy penknife I'd found to the skin on my thigh. All I'd thought in that moment was that I just wanted to hurt myself. I didn't know why, or what possessed me to try it. I didn't know how I knew it'd make me feel better, but somehow, it did. It hurt, a lot. But for those brief minutes when I was only concerned with watching the thin trail of blood travel across my leg, and the physical, real sting in my skin from the sharp metal, I forgot about everything else. Nothing mattered but that pain I was in, here and now, in that moment. My worries and fears drained away with the blood._

 _It became a ritual, and that penknife became my only friend, the only tangible thing I could rely on to make me feel better. And it was a habit I carried with me through the rest of my teenage years, well beyond my leaving that group home at age fifteen._

Killian had to slam the book shut to collect himself. The thought of Emma physically hurting herself cut him deep. He had seen the remnants of faded lines on her thighs, but had never thought to ask about them, perhaps subconsciously suspecting their origin and not willing to entertain the thought or consider the depths she must have fallen to in order to carry out such an action.

He didn't much understand the workings of this realm in terms of schooling, only really knowing that it was a far cry from the environment he had been educated in. But it seemed that children were the same across all realms, in their cruelty towards one another. The actions of the twins Emma had written of were not so far removed from those that the cousins carried out upon Killian, and he felt every fraction of her humiliation and loneliness.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey guys! Thanks as usual for reviews, faves and follows! This chapter covers quite a large span of Killian's life and jumps him forward into adulthood, hence it being a little longer** **than Emma's section. I also feel that there's more to write for Killian than Emma...there's a lot more possibilities with what I can do with characters in the enchanted forest than in our world after all! Anyway, please let me know what you think of this one!**

 **P.S. To anyone at comic con this weekend, my envy knows no bounds!**

Chapter 8

 _The cousins were educated alongside me for the next three years, until both were sent to the military academy to become soldiers in the king's army. That left me with one year of studying alone at the manor house, and in that year, without the constant fear of being tormented, I learned more than I had in the previous three put together. Having managed to perfect my calligraphy and reading skills, my studies finally began to cover the details of nautical navigation in preparation for my inevitable return to the navy._

 _Harold planned to keep me in his care until I turned seventeen, at which point I would enter the navy at seaman rank and climb the ladder in Liam's footsteps. However, my return to the deck of a ship occurred somewhat early, when cousin Arthur returned to our house to visit his uncle a few weeks after my fifteenth birthday. Despite my attempts to greet him like a gentleman, prepared to put the past behind us, he insisted on reinstating our prior relationship; while speaking perfectly politely to me in front of Harold, the moment we were alone, I found his thick fingers around my neck and his fetid breath in my face._

 _"You think you're quite the gentleman, don't you, rat?" I remember him snarling, "Never forget who you are. You're nothing to this family. You're nothing but the son of a dirty, stinking whore."_

 _I hadn't intended to respond, but the mention of my mother from his repulsive mouth struck a chord somewhere within me, and I felt my carefully controlled resolve snap clean in half. Before I could really comprehend my actions, I had jammed my knee into his ribs. He released me in shock, and I took the opportunity to land a clean punch across his jaw, hard enough to knock him to the ground._

 _I was possessed by my anger in that moment, drunk on the feeling of that obnoxious swine getting his just deserves, and I dropped to my knees atop his chest, and watched his expression contort in pain as I landed punch after punch on his face. I couldn't hear or see anything but his bloodied countenance below me. I couldn't even feel the pain in my knuckles, even as I saw them split open, and my own blood meddle with Arthur's._

 _And then I was being pulled away, and the arms around my torso snapped me back to awareness. Alfred was restraining me against his chest, growling in my ear that I should calm down, as Harold bent down over his nephew._

 _Harold turned to look at me, and the sheer disappointment in his face had me shaking myself free from Alfred's grasp and high-tailing it out of the room. I kept running, right out of the house and out into the gardens. As I ran, I remember thinking that I'd blown it, that I'd ruined everything. I fell to my knees next to a tree, and I remember just crying, cursing myself for my lack of self-control._

 _Harold found me some time later as I rested against the tree, knees up to my chest, arms resting over them and head buried in my forearms. I felt him sat down beside me, and I couldn't bring myself to look at him._

 _"Killian, I'm not angry with you," he said to me, and I remember lifting my head to look at him in confusion, "Alfred just informed me of how those boys have been treating you. I'm sorry, Killian; if I'd known I would never have allowed it to carry on. I don't blame you for finally losing your cool. In fact, I'm surprised you didn't lash out sooner."_

 _"You're not going to send me away?" I asked him. And the slight smile he'd been giving me seemed to melt away._

 _"Killian, I don't blame you for what you did, but that doesn't mean it can be ignored. My brother will not allow it to go unpunished, and I cannot disobey my brother's wishes. He will call for me to disown you, to leave you out on the streets with nothing."_

 _"Please," I started to beg, terrified of returning to that life, "I'm sorry, please don't send me back."_

 _"Hush, boy," he said, resting a hand on my shoulder, "I would never return you to that life. But you can no longer stay here. I will arrange for you to join the crew of one of the navy ships. My good friend, Captain Roberts, owns a vessel called The Night's Honour. He is a good man; he will take care of you. You are still too young to assume the seaman position, so you will have to serve as cabin boy for a couple of years. But when you come of age, you will still climb the ranks. You will still follow in your brother's footsteps."_

 _"You mean you aren't to disown me?" I asked him._

 _"Killian, you are my son in every way that matters. I will never disown you. I swear it."_

 _I remember searching his eyes for any sign of falsehood or hesitation, but I saw only sincerity, and I allowed myself believe his words._

 _I joined the crew of The Night's Honour two weeks later, under the name Killian Addair, son of the revered retired sea captain Harold Addair. Harold told me that I must keep my true parentage a secret; if it were found out that I was not of noble blood, I would not be able to progress through the gentlemanly ranks that would allow me to one day be a captain._

 _Upon joining the ship, I was the eldest of the cabin boys, and the one with the supposedly noblest blood. The difference in the way I was treated in this guise was colossal compared to the last time I'd served as cabin boy. My name alone meant that crewmen, who might once have dismissed my existence altogether, now greeted me with respect, knowing that one day they may serve under my captaincy._

 _I was initially greeted with an icy reception from the younger cabin boys, whose deprived upbringing was, unbeknownst to them, not too dissimilar from my own. But when I took the time to speak to them, learn of their pasts and help them out whenever I could, sometimes even defending them from the harsh treatment of the crew, they soon came to see me as one of their own._

 _My protective nature over the boys often found me in trouble with the higher placed gentlemen, who would remark on my lack of respect if I stood up to them. I took many a rope across my backside, the standard punishment for disobedient cabin boys, but the rope barely broke the skin, and the pain was insignificant compared to the agony I'd often been subjected to over the years._

 _My time as a cabin boy passed quickly, and on my seventeenth birthday, I was promoted to able seaman, a rank above the ordinary seaman most cabin boys progressed to; by that time, my abilities as a sailor were clear, my knowledge of the workings of a ship rivalled only by those who'd served on ships for twenty years and longer. I earned quite a reputation for myself for my work ethic, performing the tasks I was given quickly and efficiently._

 _Over the following years I kept my head down, and I climbed to the role of sub-lieutenant in record time, assuming the position at the well-below-average age of twenty-four. By that time I'd served on six different ships, earning a name for myself as a most accomplished sailor. Liam had also gained a name for himself, rising to the role of captain of The Jewel Of The Realm at the age of thirty. The Addair brothers were the pride of the King's navy._

 _I am ashamed to admit that in knowing about my positive reputation, I developed a somewhat elevated level of self-confidence. This was only worsened by the revelation that being a younger man in such a powerful naval position seemed to be an attractive quality to the women I met in bars. I received attention that I was more than happy to accept. Thinking back upon it, I think my need for such attention stemmed from the lack of self-worth I'd felt for most of my life; it felt good to be wanted and desired._

 _However, my self-assuredness would take somewhat of a knock when, just days before I was to officially become a lieutenant, the truth of my background was revealed to the naval commodores in charge of the Lortuna fleets. It appeared that word had reached my cousins of my ever-increasingly positive reputation within the navy, and the news had filtered up to their father. I suppose that their party had never been able to move past the fight we'd had almost ten years prior, but regardless of the reason behind it, word reached those in power that I was not Harold Addair's true son._

 _At that time, I was serving on a ship called The Punisher, under Captain Johnson, a hugely experienced sea captain with extremely traditional views, perhaps as a result of his advanced aged of sixty-six. I had joined the ship just days ago, technically still a sub-lieutenant, but trialling as a full lieutenant. The first two weeks aboard the ship would serve as my trial period, after which point I would officially be upgraded to lieutenant in a ceremony aboard the ship._

 _At this point in my life, I'd finally started to believe that I'd made it, made something of myself. So it seemed like my world would come crashing down upon me when a postal ship arrived one day carrying an urgent message for Captain Johnson. I was unceremoniously dragged down into the captain's quarters and forced to stand before the man himself. Not knowing the reason for such actions, I was surprised to say the least._

 _"Sub-lieutenant Addair," he addressed me, "I have received a letter from Commodore Castleford of Lortuna. Some startling accusations have been made about you. I wonder if you have any idea to what those accusations might pertain?"_

 _I immediately knew what the accusations would be, and whom had made them, but Harold's voice in my ear from years ago, telling me that I should never reveal my true parentage, forced me to keep my silence on the matter._

 _"No, Captain Johnson."_

 _I saw his jaw twitch, and I felt like he saw right through my charade._

 _"The accusation, sub-lieutenant, is that your name is not, in fact, Addair. That Captain Harold Addair took you in as a boy and gave you his own name, when in fact, you are an orphan born of common blood. What say you to that?"_

 _"I…I don't know where such a story has come from, Captain," I answered, trying to keep the tremble from my voice._

 _"If you're lying to me, I'll see to it that you're flogged," he growled, eyes flashing dangerously._

 _"I'm not lying," I answered, barely above a whisper._

 _"Seaman Argle, if you'd care to step forward," the captain said._

 _A man stepped out of the shadows to my right, and I couldn't stop my almost violent jump backwards as my eyes fell upon the man, one of the three who'd visited me night after night back on The Bonetta. I was caught by one of the men behind me as my body fought to get out of the room, my breathing suddenly uncontrollable and rapid as the memories flooded back and I felt myself shrink back to my nine-year-old self._

 _"Ah, so it appears you recognise the Seaman, Sub-lieutenant," the captain almost smirked as he recognised his victory, "Mr Argle, if you'd care to recount how you know the sub-lieutenant."_

 _"Aye, Captain," Argle growled, his voice bringing bile to the back of my throat, "this boy served alongside me on The Bonetta. He was just a cabin boy, Captain, in nothing but rags. They brought him in off the street, after his fugitive father left him for dead at the docks. Word had it his mother was a dead whore. Little bastard had nobody, until that Liam Addair felt sorry for him and took him back home with him. That's how he's wound up here, no doubt, Captain."_

 _"Does any of this sound familiar, Addair? If your name truly is Addair…" the captain asked me._

 _I couldn't speak. I couldn't draw my eyes away from the man who'd haunted my nightmares for years. I could barely stand._

 _"I shall take your silence, and the fact that, judging by your reaction, you are obviously familiar with Seaman Argle, to mean that what Mr Argle says is correct. I said that if you lied to me, sub-lieutenant, you would be flogged. I am nothing if not a man of my word. Take him on deck, gentlemen. Six-dozen lashes with the cat should do him."_

 _I had seen men lashed with the cat o' nine tails before, but usually only up to three or four dozen. That many was usually enough to cause the man being punished to lose consciousness, and his back to resemble the crisscrossed lacing on a lady's crimson corset. I found my voice as I was dragged onto deck, and I called out my pleas, begging for mercy, but to no avail._

 _The crew were summoned to observe my punishment, and I was brought up to the mast of the ship. My jacket and shirt were removed as the captain read out the reason for my punishment. I saw the horror in the faces of the crewmembers, not at what I'd done but at what I was to receive; I had built such a favourable relationship with the men on board in the short time I'd been on the ship, the majority of whom were also lowborn. I managed to draw some strength from their gazes, and ceased my struggling, planning on accepting my punishment with grace._

 _I was pushed forward into the wide mast, and my arms were stretched around either side and tied together, and fastened to the specially-built-in hook designed to prevent the man from sliding down the mast upon losing consciousness. A scrap of leather was forced between my teeth, a custom to prevent the punished man from biting through his own tongue or cracking his teeth together._

 _I waited, trembling, as the captain finished his accusations, before announcing the six-dozen lashes I would receive. I felt the sun bearing down on my naked back, knowing it was the last time the skin there would be unblemished. And then I heard the drumroll signalling that the first lash was about to be delivered._

 _And then, all I saw was bright white, as the nine short lengths of knotted rope bit into my back, and my plans to remain silent were chased far away as I cried out into the leather between my teeth, and felt the first trickles of blood run down into the back of my breeches. Tears came to my eyes as the captain called out, "One," and I realised that I had another seventy-one of these to endure._

 _The second was no better than the first, as it overlapped with the wounds from the first, and the agony intensified._

 _The third hit at a slightly different angle, crossing over the existing welts, and my cries grew louder._

 _By the fourth crack, I was hit with nausea, and I found myself biting against the leather, not only to quell my screams but also to keep the vomit at bay._

 _By the end of the first dozen, the nausea had made way to dizziness as I struggled to stay conscious. I was afforded a short break, water poured down my throat as I spluttered and choked. And then the lashes continued. A part of me wanted to lose consciousness, but I knew it would afford me no advantage, knowing that when men fainted during the lashing, the punishment was halted until consciousness had been regained. I had no desire to prolong the beating, so I fought with all I had to keep my eyes open, focussing on the feel of the wooden mast against my cheek._

 _I lost that battle after thirty-two lashes, everything briefly falling into darkness, before I awoke to arms holding me up, and the searing pain in my back. And before I could really remember what was going on, the lashes continued._

 _When the seventy-second lash hit my back, it must have been less than an hour since the start of my punishment, but to me, it felt like days had passed. My removal from the mast gave me no reprieve, as even the slightest movement of my arms had me crying out in pain. Men on either side of me awkwardly carried me down to the brig, the weakness in my legs meaning they more-or-less had to drag me the entire way as my head swam._

 _I only remember vaguely as they stripped me of my blood-soaked breeches and poured rum over my back, the sting it caused so intense that I lost consciousness again._

 _When I awoke, I was facedown on the hard floor of the cell; the off-white sheet below me, now stained with my blood, was the only thing separating me from the cold wooden floorboards. Someone had bandaged up my back, but that did nothing to alleviate the pain. I had never been in such agony, and in that moment, not for the first time, I prayed that I could just slip away and never reawaken._

Emma swiped the tears from her eyes, not for the first time since she'd started reading his story. She had never wanted to ask Killian about the long, crisscrossing scars on his back. She'd known enough about navy traditions with whippings to know that it was the most likely reason behind them, but reading his description in such vivid detail had her feeling sick to her stomach.

As she thought back over everything she'd read, she realised that every single bad thing that had happened to Killian was a direct result of his birth into a poor family. Had he truly been born as Liam's brother, his life would have been so very different. The injustice of it was mind-boggling. She supposed the same was true for herself, though. Had she been born into a normal family, and raised by her own true parents, her life could have been startlingly different.

She and Killian were both victims of circumstance, but those circumstances had led her to him.

* * *

 _I was moved to my last ever foster home when I was fifteen, and I was determined to make this the last one. I was sick of being uprooted and moved around. I was almost sixteen, and when I turned eighteen I would age out of the system, and then I'd be free. I just had to make it for two more years._

 _Any hopes I'd had of catching a break and actually getting a decent family this time were dashed when I met my new foster parents. The were alcoholics and drug abusers, who made sure I was well aware that I was only with them so that they could collect their payment for taking me in and use it to feed their addictions._

 _For the most part, they left me alone and I left them alone. I kept going to school, not because they made me, but because it was better than staying around the house all day with them. I was rarely given any food, and I usually resorted to stealing from local stores just to keep myself fed and alive. But it didn't really bother me. I was pretty indifferent to life by that point, just doing whatever I had to do without putting much thought or consideration into it._

 _My grades were low and I had no prospects. While other kids started to talk about college, I just waited for the day I'd be free from the system. For some reason, I thought that my release from the system would automatically make my life work out. That maybe I'd get a job, get my own place, and do whatever I wanted to do. But my foster parents were quick to remind me that once I reached eighteen, I was completely on my own; at least with them I had a roof over my head. It was the knowledge, deep down, that they were right, that kept me in that place._

 _Even when the man, Mike, would lose it sometimes. If he had a bad trip on whatever crap he was injecting into his system, he'd often mistake me for a home invader or someone who was cheating on him with his wife. Too many times, he would corner me, threatening me with baseball bats and crowbars, frequently throwing a punch in my direction, or a kick to my stomach. But by that point, I'd learned how to deal with those kinds of injuries, so I stayed. And I dealt with it._

 _It got a little easier for a while when I discovered their alcohol and pot stash. They were usually too off their faces to even notice when I took some, and for the best part of a year, these two substances became a crutch. I discovered that everything was easier to deal with when your mind wasn't one hundred per cent there._

 _I knew, even then, that I was on a slippery slope. But I told myself that it was just a temporary fix, just while I was living with them. After all, the money that should've been spent on food for me was being used to buy the stuff, why shouldn't I get a piece of the action? And it worked; between that and my trusty penknife, I found a way to get through. I was able to forget about the crappy situation I was in, and it helped me forget all the hell I'd been through in the past fifteen years of my life._

 _I had it all figured out, right up until I was just-turned seventeen. For the most part, I kept my substance use to outside of school. On evenings, I'd sneak out and smoke or drink in the park. I'd found a crowd of other kids at school who were into the same thing, and my nights were usually spent getting drunk and stoned with them. They weren't all the nicest kids, but some of them had lived lives not so different from my own, and there was a certain level of understanding there. None of us ever discussed our backgrounds or our home lives in any detail. We just lived for the moment, and for once I wasn't constantly reminded of stuff I didn't want to think about._

 _And then, one day, I forgot to take the pot out of my bag before school. It just so happened that, on that particular day, the school decided to conduct a random bag search after a shooting had occurred at a school in Oklahoma. All the schools across the country were tightening up security, and that started with a search for knives and guns in student possession. I was too hung-over from the night before to even consider there might be something in my bag that shouldn't have been there, so I didn't think to remove it, even as the teacher reached over to look inside._

 _My heart dropped when she pulled out the clear little bag of green buds, fixing me with a disapproving glare._

 _"Shit, I don't know how that got there," I remember saying, knowing it was pointless to deny it._

 _Next thing I knew, I was in the principal's office, the bag of pot on the desk before me. He was asking where I got it, and I wouldn't tell him. I didn't really care if I got in trouble at the school; I was all too familiar with detentions. But then the principal told me that he'd have to call my foster parents and tell them what had happened, and suddenly I was begging him not to._

 _It was to no avail, and that night when I returned home, I was dragged straight into the hallway and slammed against the wall, as Mike snarled in my ear and asked me where I'd gotten the weed. I told him it'd been from a kid at school, but he didn't believe me, and before I knew it, I was being thrown to the floor._

 _He was cursing and shouting as he kicked my curled up form, and I made no effort to fight back. I tried to get up and run when I saw him slip his belt from around his waist, but he tripped me as I struggled to stand, and then brought the leather down upon me, buckle end first._

 _All I could do was curl tighter into a ball and shield my head as the leather and steel slammed against my shoulder, my back, my legs. It was the most pain I'd ever felt, and I could feel the bruises forming in the places covered by my clothes, and the skin splitting on my exposed arms._

 _When he finally dropped the belt, he delivered a swift kick to my face, bloodying my nose and splitting my lip. He dragged me to my feet and slammed me back into the wall, throwing a punch that hit me square in the eye socket. My head was spinning and all I could taste was blood._

 _He snarled something in my face, but I can't remember the words. My brain was so fuzzy and my vision cloudy. And then he released me, and I fell to the floor, my body seemingly boneless. I lay there, curled up and crying for what seemed like hours._

 _When I finally found the strength to get up, I pulled myself to my knees, and crawled up the stairs to the bathroom. I managed to pull myself up by holding onto the sink, and the sight of my face had terrified me. I was covered in dried blood, seemingly from both nostrils. My lip was swollen and bloody, my cheek turning a stark purple. My eye socket was already blackening, and my left eye was swollen shut._

 _I managed to wash most of the blood away from my face under the faucet, and cleaned the welts in my arms from the belt. My body ached all over, and each step was agony as I staggered into my room. I threw what few belongings I had into a bag, and stumbled down the stairs and out the front door, never looking back to that, or any other foster home._

Once again, Killian found himself feeling positively sickened at the thought of anyone laying hands upon Emma. How could there have been so many people in her past intent on hurting her? Her feistiness had always amazed him, but knowing where it had stemmed from, he was filled with a strange mix of regret and admiration. After all the hardships she'd faces, it seemed nothing would knock his girl down for long.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello, people! I'm sooooo sorry to the people who have been waiting for an update. I've been incredibly busy the past couple of weeks, moving house and graduating from university last week (woo!). I've had no time to write, which has made me very sad. But for the next few weeks I should have much more time, so no more super long delays hopefully!**

 **There's probably only going to be a couple more chapters after this one, so please consider leaving a review while this story is still in the works! Thanks again for all the interest in this story. Read on, my friends!**

Chapter 9

 _Barely days later, I was dispatched from The Punisher and sent back to Lortuna aboard a smaller vessel. My wounds had barely begun to heal, and the cold, damp conditions of the small boat only increased my discomfort. I had barely spoken a word since my punishment; it seemed even during my adult years it was all too easy to slip back into that self-preserving silence I'd mastered as a child._

 _Upon arriving back in Lortuna, I was immediately escorted to a jail cell and unceremoniously thrown in, with little consideration to my injured state. I was gratified to find that, unlike on board The Punisher where my bed had been a sheet on the floor, this cell at least had a bed with a thin mattress. I stumbled over and collapsed onto it facedown as I wondered what was to happen to me._

 _Hours later, I was visited by a doctor. He told me that Harold Addair had demanded that, at the very least, I was seen to by a medical practitioner. He removed the dirty, days-old bandages from my back, cleaned the wounds, and bound them, all the while telling me how fortunate I was not to have caught a malaise. I couldn't bring myself to thank the man as he took his leave, too caught up in my trance-like state as I stared blankly at the stone walls._

 _Time started to blur while I sat alone in that cell. I would've lost track of it completely if not for the slight crack in the wall that allowed the daylight to filter in, and the two meals I was brought each day, which always remained untouched. I had no desire to eat, and I only drank when I was too weak to fight my thirst._

 _I don't recall how many days passed without a sound passing my lips, but I remember the day I broke that silence. A familiar voice down the dark corridor snapped me into alertness, and I pushed myself up from where I lay on my front on the bed, just as the door opened. I remember the tears well up in my eyes as they landed on my brother, and I clambered to my feet, almost falling into his open arms before he could take a further step into the cell. He tried to return my embrace, but the awkwardness of avoiding my shredded back forced him to keep his arms to his side as I clung on for dear life._

 _Eventually he pried me away from him, and guided me backwards to sit on the bed, sitting down beside me with a deep sigh._

 _"I am so sorry, my brother," he said to me, and the revelation that he still considered me his sibling had fresh tears coming to my eyes._

 _"It's not your fault," I told him, my voice hoarse from disuse._

 _"This shouldn't have happened, Killian. You should have been trialled. Captain Johnson had no right to issue such a punishment," he said, and I could see his barely restrained anger beneath the surface._

 _"What's to happen to me?" I asked him, trying (unsuccessfully) not to allow my fear to seep into my tone._

 _"Well, there will be a hearing with the commodores. They have summoned Father and I to speak. I swear to you, Killian, they will not hurt you again," he reassured, his hand falling to my shoulder._

 _"We have been lying to them, Liam. They will discover who I really am. What then? I'll be out on the streets; I'll have nothing again. And what will they do to you, and to Father?" I was panicking now._

 _"Hush, little brother. I won't let that happen. And Father has a good name with these men; he served with most of the commodores and considers them old friends. Everything will be OK, Killian, I swear it."_

 _While I felt that he was just saying this to pacify me, I couldn't help but feel comforted by his words. A part of me had expected Liam and Harold to distance themselves from the shame I would undoubtedly bring upon them. But Liam's encouraging words in my ear and consoling hand upon my shoulder gave me just a small shred of hope, but it was enough to cling to, even as Liam took his leave and told me he would see me as soon as he could._

 _The next day, I was brought a bucket of water, a bar of soap, and a fresh set of clothes. I was amazed to find that I'd been provided with my sub-lieutenant uniform; it was a promising sign. I was summoned to the head commodore's office, escorted by two officers._

 _When I was guided into the room, the men inside all stood. The room was sizeable, and pompously grandiose, with deep red draping and highly varnished wooden walls, and a floor to ceiling window looking out over the harbour. Lortuna's head commodore stood centrally behind a large desk, a rear commodore to his left, and another to his right. To the side stood Liam and Harold._

 _Upon my entry into the room, the older Addair took long strides toward me, and gathered me into his arms. I winced slightly as his arms put a little too much pressure on my still-healing back, but the comfort his embrace gave me was enough for me to endure the tenderness._

 _When he pulled back, he placed his hand solidly on my shoulder, and his eyes met mine as he tried to encourage me without words._

 _"Captain Addair, if we may begin," the lead commodore announced, though there was little contempt in his tone._

 _"Of course, Commodore," Harold answered, stepping back to stand beside Liam once again._

 _The three men behind the desk took their seats, as Liam, Harold and I remained standing, the two officers closely at my back._

 _"Sub-lieutenant Killian Addair," the commodore began, "My name is Commodore Castleford, and this is Rear Commodore Anderson," he gestured to his left, "and Rear Commodore Bell," he gestured to the man on his right._

 _I nodded at each man, and raised my hand in salute, as was the custom to greet superiors._

 _"Mr Addair, you are aware of the charges brought against you, are you not?" he continued._

 _"I am, Sir," I answered._

 _"And what say you to the charges, Mr Addair?" he asked me._

 _My eyes fell on Harold's, and he smiled at me sadly, a sign that I should tell the truth._

 _"That they are true, Sir," I answered, swallowing thickly as I tried to maintain my composure._

 _"You mean to tell us, that you are not the true son of Captain Harold Addair. Is that correct?"_

 _"That is correct, Sir."_

 _"And how did you come to be a part of such a lie?" the commodore asked me, betraying no emotion or any elusion to his opinion._

 _"I was an orphan, Sir, working as a cabin boy aboard The Bonetta with Liam Addair. When I was ten years old, I saved Liam from drowning. In return, Captain Addair removed me from a…bad situation…and took me in as his own."_

 _"Is that correct, gentlemen?" Commodore Castleford asked Liam and Harold._

 _"Every word, Commodore," Harold affirmed as Liam nodded along, "I took that boy in fifteen years ago, and he has been my son ever since. It matters not to me where the boy was born and by what means. Killian is, and always will be, my son," he continued, his eyes trained on mine the entire time as I struggled not to look away in embarrassment._

 _"Captain Addair, you are, of course, aware of the problem we face now. The sub-lieutenant is technically lowborn. The rank he is currently in is reserved only for gentlemen. While_ you _may consider Killian your son, the law does not. I trust you understand the predicament in which we have found ourselves," Castleford advised, his respect for the former Captain evident in his careful tone._

 _"Killian is a gifted sailor, Commodore. You have, no doubt, been aware of the reputation he and Liam have made for themselves. He has been educated to the standard of any other gentleman. He speaks like any other gentleman. He has climbed the ranks like any other gentleman. Why should he be punished on a technicality?" Harold implored._

 _Commodore Castleford sighed deeply, but seemed to mull over Harold's plea._

 _"Captain Addair, you may be aware that news has already travelled through the entire navy of Killian's true parentage. If I were to allow him to continue to serve in a gentleman's rank, I fear that any crew he may find himself in command of would not respect him as they would a true gentleman," the commodore answered regretfully._

 _"Commodore Castleford, Sir," Liam suddenly piped up, "The crew on my ship, The Jewel of the Realm, know well of my brother's sailing skills. I know my men well, Sir, and I know they would not reject Killian based on his lineage. Allow him to join my ship as my lieutenant."_

 _My eyes snapped wide open in wonder, and I found that glimmer of hope shimmering under the surface again._

 _"Captain Addair," the commodore began, this time addressing Liam, "Killian has been serving as a sub-lieutenant. If I were to heed your request, he would not only be breaking the rule of gentleman, but he would be receiving a promotion."_

 _"Killian was due to become a lieutenant just days before he was punished, and punished unfairly, I must add. He is more than capable of performing the role, and I would not have him ranked any lower aboard my ship," Liam answered, jaw set in determination._

 _The commodore's jaw clenched as he considered Liam's words. The rear commodore to his right suddenly leaned over, whispering something in the commodore's ear. The commodore nodded, before his eyes fell back upon Liam._

 _"OK, Captain Addair, Killian will serve alongside you on The Jewel of the Realm as your lieutenant," he said, and I felt Liam, Harold and I relax all at the same time as the commodore continued, "On the condition that you embark on a voyage of the utmost important, on request of the king, himself."_

 _"Of course, Commodore," Liam answered, grinning widely, "To where does he wish us to journey?"_

 _"That information is highly classified, for you and I to discuss in private," the commodore told Liam, "Lieutenant Addair, you are free to leave. Officers, if you will escort the Captain and the Lieutenant down to the foyer," he gestured to myself and Harold, "Young Captain Addair and I have some matters to discuss."_

 _I blinked in wonder, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. I had been sure that I was to be expelled from the navy, possibly left homeless and disgraced. Suddenly, I was to be a lieutenant, and serving under my brother's captaincy, just as we had always dreamt. Harold's warm smile and comforting hand on my shoulder as he turned me and guided me out of the room beside him was enough to draw the smallest smile from my own mouth, and set ablaze that tiny glimmer of hope as I realised that everything would, as Liam had promised, be OK._

Emma felt a warmth as she realised just how strong the brothers' bond had been. Killian had been so lucky to have found Liam and Harold; she almost felt jealous that she had never been able to find such a family in her younger years, but she couldn't begrudge Killian for it, not after everything he had been through. And now, she supposed, she had that family that she'd never had as a child; she had both her parents, she had her son. Killian had had nobody for hundreds of years after Milah's death. She knew all too well the emptiness that came with being alone for a long time. At least now, they had each other.

* * *

 _I spent the next three months living in an abandoned car in an old, blind woman's driveway. She clearly hadn't used the car since her sight had deteriorated, probably a decade ago, but she still kept it outside her house, unlocked and battery dead. The backseat was large enough for me to sleep in relative comfort, and it kept me out of the wind and rain. If she suspected that I was staying there, she never let on, but the paper bags of perfectly good leftovers that she'd often place beside the garbage can rather than inside with the rest of her trash seemed to be there just for me._

 _I'd found out that the university library had free shower facilities for its students. A couple of times each week I would swipe the wallet of an unsuspecting student as they made their way out of the building, and use their library card to gain access to the washrooms. When I was done, I would always place their card back in their wallet, and hand it in to the front desk for lost and found, never touching the money that tempted me inside the leather pockets._

 _I'd developed a system for keeping myself clean and fed, and for those three months, I had a taste of that freedom I'd so longed for. But then one day, that kind old lady whose car I'd been sleeping in, passed away from a stroke. Her house was cleared out, her possessions sold, including that car. And for the first time, I was out on the street, with no shelter and no food._

 _I learned pretty quickly which areas of the city I shouldn't sleep in, or even enter after dark, when a meth head slammed me against a wall under the bridge one night and held a knife to my throat. She snarled in my face, rambling on about some crazy fantasy involving lions and dragons infesting the city that were coming for her, and how she needed my backpack to feed to them. I barely made it out of that one; I was lucky to escape with just a shallow scratch under my chin from the blade, but she did get away with my backpack. I was left with nothing but the clothes on my back._

 _It was worst when it rained; in the downpours, the homeless of the city seemed to become concentrated in the warm, dry places. The problem was that when it came to homelessness, the safest places were those furthest from other people. This left me with two options: either risk the sheltered areas, knowing I'd get no sleep for the need to watch my back for the entire night; or brave the freezing cold rain, safe from people, but in danger of hypothermia or worse. After attempting the latter a few times, and fearing I might literally freeze to death on the last, I decided that shelter and warmth was worth the danger that people presented. And by that point, I guess I figured that people had already taken everything from me; there was nothing else I could lose. So I'd sit in a corner of those places, wide awake and trying my hardest to block out the sounds of the people around me as they cried, shouted, fought, argued. I'd catch up on sleep the following day in the corner of the library, before doing the whole thing again._

 _Weeks passed, and I'd started to feel like I'd taken as much as I could; I was exhausted, lonely and scared. And then one night, when I was curled up in the corner of a parking lot next to a dumpster, I saw some guys steal a car. I watched how they managed to unlock the doors, and then start the car before driving off into the night. I had easily been able to work out how they'd unlocked the doors, but it was impossible for me to see how they'd hotwired the engine. The next day, when I'd gone to the library for my shower, I stayed for a little while longer, and seated myself at one of the computers. I'd never really used the internet before; it was still kind of a new thing at that point, and foster homes generally didn't allow the kids to use it. But I figured out how to search, and it wasn't so hard to find instructions for hotwiring vehicles._

 _Armed with my new knowledge, later that day I selected my first target, a bright yellow bug. The doors were as easy to unlock as I'd expected, and I settled in ready to try to start the engine. And that's when I realised there was somebody in the back seat. Neal._

 _That day marked the first of many where I'd actually be happy for a while. Neal brought me freedom, and companionship. He understood where I'd come from, and he knew how to get by in life with nothing. He was a criminal; not a dangerous one, but he knew how to steal stuff, and he showed me how, and those few months were the most fun I'd ever had. It was the most cared for I'd ever felt up to that point. The most loved._

 _We travelled together for months, thieving our way through life, happy and carefree. Though we both knew we'd come from bad backgrounds, we never lingered on it too much. Looking back, he clearly couldn't explain what had happened with Rumplestiltskin, and how he'd fled to my world from the Enchanted Forest; I'd have thought him crazy, just like Ingrid. And though I trusted him, I never wanted him to know the things I had been through, either. My past was clouded in shame; shame that I'd let those things happen, and fearing that he'd think less of me because of them._

 _Most of the time we slept in the bug, but occasionally we managed to make enough money from stealing and selling stuff on to stay in a motel, and I never took the feeling of a real mattress under my back for granted. It maybe wasn't a healthy relationship, but Neal had given me everything I'd never had. My life was better thanks to him. I should've seen that it wouldn't…it couldn't last. We were living on the edge of a knife, and any wrong move or mistake could knock us right off. But neither of us cared; we were too blissfully ignorant of the truth about our lifestyle; I think we both thought we were invincible._

Killian was torn between feelings of jealousy towards Baelfire, and the relief he felt that Emma had found him. He hated thinking of the boy he'd once cared for alone in an unfamiliar world, living the life of a criminal because he had never known any other way to survive. It brought him some comfort to know that Emma and Bae had had each other, even for a short time. They had been there for one another when they'd had nobody else.

Killian knew that Emma had loved Neal. He had loved the boy, himself, at one point. He felt so conflicted. He hated thinking of Emma being with anyone else, never mind someone who he had known and cared for. But he had to remind himself that, however she had felt about Bae, he was gone. Killian experienced an uncomfortable pang of guilt at the relief he felt at that, and he immediately chastised himself. When Bae had been alive, he had been prepared to fight tooth and nail for Emma, secretly believing that his pirating self had no real chance, with Baelfire being Henry's father.

He knew that if the man hadn't died, Killian may well be in a very different situation right now; in fact, he'd probably have been killed by the crocodile. Emma had been the one thing that allowed him to move past his search for vengeance, and without her, he would surely have pursued Rumplestiltskin to the death. At the time, he had thought his fight for Emma was only to win the woman herself, but thinking back, that too, was a fight to survive. And if faced with that choice: to die without Emma so that Bae may live and have her, or to have things the way they currently were, he knew it would not be an easy choice; he was just thankful that he was not, nor would he ever be, faced with such a choice. What had happened, had happened, and Emma was his. He chose to focus on that, as he pressed on with her story.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Evening all! One more chapter to go after this one! If you've enjoyed what you've read so far, please leave me a review...they make me smile, and we can all use a smile every once in a while!**

Chapter 10

 _Later that day, I returned to Harold's manor with he and Liam. We were to set sail on our important, top-secret assignment in a fortnight's time; enough time for the wounds on my back to heal and for special arrangements to be made for the journey. Harold called in a doctor that evening to see to my back. It was the same doctor the family had employed for years, Dr Hodgekin, and as such, I knew him well. He had always been a gentle, kind man, with unrivalled patience when it came to my stubborn temperament. Though the man was a good decade older now than the last time I had seen him, he didn't appear to have aged a day. I was, however, somewhat surprised when I realised how much shorter he was now, or rather, how much taller I had grown. He seemed to make the same observation upon laying eyes on me, as he placed a hand on my shoulder and muttered a wistful remark about "sprouting like a beanstalk"._

 _When I removed my shirt and he helped me slip the bandages from my torso, his gasp of what might have been horror quickly turned to a sympathetic half-smile. He apologised profusely as he informed me that he would have to sew some of the lacerations shut, such was their size and depth. He offered me something to numb the pain, but I opted against the stuff, having seen the effect it had on sailors when they'd abused its use in the port. The pain was horrendous, but I grit my teeth and clenched my fists and uttered not a sound as he quickly closed the gashes in my back._

 _When he had finished, he muttered some words, something about how the wounds would heal much quicker now. I threw him a half-hearted thank you, and he left me alone as I lay down on my front, the mattress beneath me feeling like heaven compared to the burning on my back. In the safety of my former home, I fell asleep quickly, and nobody disturbed me until the morning light began to stream through the curtains._

 _I awoke slowly, my face buried in my pillow, and an ache in my spine caused more by spending the night facedown than by the cuts across the skin._

 _"Morning, brother," Liam greeted me from the chair beside my desk, and I lifted myself up to rest my chin on my arms, my eyes meeting his sleepily._

 _"Morning," I mumbled in reply._

 _"How's your back?" he asked me._

 _"Sore," I said, wincing to demonstrate my point._

 _"Dr Hodgekin thinks you'll be well enough to join me aboard The Jewel in two weeks time. It's good news, Lieutenant," he told me, winking as he announced my new title._

 _"Aye, it is, brother," I smiled, before becoming sombre, "Thank you, Liam."_

 _"You've nothing to thank me for, Killian," he shrugged me off._

 _"No, I do," I continued, "I really thought my luck had run out this time. I knew I'd wind up getting you and Father into trouble."_

 _"Killian, none of this is your fault," he reassured me, leaning forward to rest a hand on my shoulder and looking into my eyes imploringly, "Neither Father nor I would have it any other way. You're family, Killian."_

 _I swallowed thickly and nodded, not knowing what to say._

 _"And, regardless, it's all worked out fine. We will be sailing together, just like we always dreamed. And on a special mission for the King himself, no less!" he told me, excitement barely veiled in his eyes._

 _"What is our mission?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me._

 _"Ah, I'm afraid I cannot tell you, little brother…" he smirked mischievously, "at least, not yet."_

 _"But where are we going? How long for?" I frowned, wanting to know at least some small detail of where I was to be headed._

 _"Somewhere far away. Somewhere nobody has ever sailed before," his eyes lit up as he grinned, "I cannot wait to tell you, brother. But alas, it must wait, and we must go and join Father for breakfast."_

 _He jumped to his feet, sliding the chair back under the desk and leaning forward to help me from the bed. My back stung as I carefully pushed myself up onto my feet, but I noticed that it didn't feel quite as raw as it had before the doctor had stitched it. Whether that was because I was becoming used to the pain, or I had started to heal, I couldn't be sure. But that fact, combined with Liam's infectious excitement, filled me with just a little glimmer of optimism._

 _Ten days later, Liam and I bade farewell to our father outside the manor. He first pulled Liam to him in a fierce embrace, with a whispered "Good luck". He reluctantly released his son after a few moments, taking a minute to smile proudly at the younger man, hands clasped firmly on Liam's biceps._

 _"You're a great captain, Liam Addair," Harold said to him, "I'll see you when you get back, Son."_

 _Liam nodded, before stepping back._

 _Harold's eyes then fell on me, and he beckoned me toward him with a smile on his face._

 _"Killian," he started, hands firmly on my shoulders and his eyes boring into my own, "never let anyone tell you that you are a lesser man than they. You and your brother are better men than any I could ever have hoped to meet. I'm so very sorry for all the harm that has come to you, my boy, but I know that those things have shaped you into the strong, determined survivor that you are. Look after your brother, and bring yourselves back to me safely."_

 _Harold seemed to realise that I couldn't find the words to express my feelings in that moment, as he just pulled me to his chest. When he released me, I could see the tears welling in his eyes. Knowing that he wouldn't want to make a scene, I smiled at him once more, before turning my back and climbing into the carriage where Liam stood holding the door open for me._

 _"We'll see you soon, Father," Liam said, a smile on his face, before he climbed in beside me and shut the door._

 _We both watched through the window as the carriage pulled away, and our father stood alone, a proud smile on his face and head held high._

 _"Will you tell me where we are going, yet?" I asked Liam when we were well on our way to Lortuna._

 _"Soon, brother," he smiled, shrugging off the question._

 _Three days later, we were aboard The Jewel of the Realm, ready to set sail. I remember the absolute peace I felt as we pulled out of the port, the wind billowing in the sails and the ocean beckoning to me; something about the water always drew me in, like it was home to me. I suppose I liked the calmness of it, even when it was stormy and waves rolling, it was like it was always completely in control. The ocean was deliberate. To man, the ocean was wild, untameable, unpredictable. But to be the ocean itself - it was unrestricted, it was powerful. It could move where it wanted, however it wanted, and never be held by constraints. The ocean was free._

 _Liam had been right; the crew aboard his ship, despite knowing my true lineage, never questioned my authority. They never treated me less than their Lieutenant, and I treated them with the same respect I had always given fellow crewmembers. Liam was by far the best captain I had ever sailed under. He was fair, and just. He was respectful and respectable, and the crew loved him._

 _Soon after we first set sail, he announced to the entire crew that we would be heading somewhere new and different; somewhere that would require magic - the Pegasus sail. I had known magic existed in our land, but until that moment I had never experienced it up close. As the ship took off into the sky, leaving the two ships that had been firing on us behind, I could not stop the feelings of awe that overtook me. If I had thought sailing upon the ocean was an experience, the feeling of soaring through the air was something entirely different._

 _When we landed in Neverland, Liam informed the crew that it would be just he and I who would be going onto dry land to complete the mission, and that we would be back before nightfall. When we were in our small rowing boat approaching the island, he told me of our task; we were to collect a plant that had great medicinal properties. It would be used to heal our soldiers and help us win the war. It seemed a noble task, indeed. Until we discovered the truth of it._

 _My first meeting with Peter Pan occurred when we first stepped onto the island. He had warned us about the dreamshade, but we hadn't listened. Our naïve, unwavering belief in our king blinded us to the truth of our task. When I began to suspect that what Pan had said may be true, Liam was quick to disregard my concerns. Looking back now, I wish I had not goaded him into it. We would have discovered the reality of the dreamshade's true purpose at some point, but if I hadn't pushed him to it, it might not have been at Liam's expense. I often wish that I had taken it upon myself to cut my own skin with the thorn of the plant; I would trade my life for his any day. I just wish I had known._

 _But neither of us had really known. So when he did cut into his arm, and he fell back onto the hard ground, I cursed the king, and myself, and Liam for being so stubborn. And then Pan had offered me a way to save him; the water from a fountain that was said to be the source of Neverland's eternal longevity. I was foolish, again, to ignore Pan's warning; that all magic comes with a price. The water appeared to rejuvenate Liam, and having discovered the truth of the king's plan, we returned to the ship to set sail back to Lortuna, and to tell the truth of our king's cowardice and bad form._

 _But then, just as the ship landed back on the ocean of our world, it ended. Everything I had known ended; it all fell apart, as Liam collapsed to the floor of the cabin, his life draining from him faster than I could call for help. I had lost him in an instant, and I felt like my life was ending alongside him. I cradled his head in my lap, crying, pleading for help, even as I knew it was too late. Some of the crew appeared, but I didn't acknowledge them, too lost in my tears as I buried my face against Liam's neck._

 _He was my brother. He had saved me from my worthless existence all those years ago. He was the only person who ever looked twice, who ever saw me as more than the rat I had been destined to grown up to be. He had taken me from a life of pain and nothingness, and given me everything. He didn't deserve this. It should have been me._

 _That's a thought I have never been able to shake; it should have been me._

 _I fear Harold probably felt the same way. But I suppose I shall never know; I never did see or hear from him again. We buried Liam's body at sea. In my anger toward the king, toward life in general, I stood up on that deck and rallied Liam's men. They shared my anger, my fury, and my distrust. Without second thought, they pledged their allegiance to me. Out of respect for the man who'd cared for me, who'd raised me as his own, I gave back the name Addair, and became Killian Jones once more; the name of my true father, the man who was nothing, suddenly seemed a name befitting of me now. The Jewel of the Realm became the Jolly Roger, and without ever looking back, I took my first step into a life of piracy, and I'd never felt so free. Nor so alone._

 _Until Milah._

Those two words marked the end of Killian's story. He had written no more on that page, or the next, and Emma felt like it was ending too soon; Killian had lived another two hundred years after that, and she felt like she was barely scraping the surface. But then, that just showed how long ago he had written this story. It had been before everything with Rumplestiltskin, before he'd lost his hand; Killian had told her that story before, and it wasn't one she wished to dwell on.

Closing her eyes for a minute, she thought back on everything she had learned tonight. She already felt closer to Killian. Knowing where he had come from, everything he had been through just in those twenty-five years, she had never felt more respect or more pride. It really was an understatement when he proclaimed himself a survivor. She felt a huge amount of sadness that he had gone through all of this, and the need to see him was starting to become too much to ignore.

Glancing over at her alarm clock, the time read 6:30 am. She had been up all night; Neal would be waking up downstairs any minute for his morning feed. Killian would likely be awake by now. She thought about texting him, but she decided that surprising him in person would be much more satisfying.

She carefully began to close the book, watching as the last few empty pages fell closed. But as the last couple fell flat, a flash of black on the pages had her pausing. Lifting away the back cover that had landed shut, she saw that the last two pages had letters across them. She recognised it as the same calligraphy she'd been reading all night, only it appeared to have been written in modern ballpoint pen. Looking closer at the first of the pages, she understood what it was. The first three words on the page made it abundantly clear when, and why, he had filled in these last pages:

 _To my Swan._

* * *

 _I should have seen that Neal and I couldn't keep it up, but there was something about his confidence, his self-assuredness - it was infectious, and it had me thinking that we could live that way forever. And he was all I'd ever had, the only person who'd ever really, truly cared about me, and stuck around long enough for me to know it. I guess that's why I was stupid enough to risk everything to stay with him._

 _We were going to move to Tallahassee, to make a new life for ourselves there, but then Neal found the wanted poster that said they were looking for him. When he told me that he couldn't be with me, and that he'd have to go to Canada alone, my whole life threatened to close in on me. The fear I felt at the thought of him leaving me, of me being alone again, was terrifying. He told me how he'd worked as a janitor at some high-end jewellery store, and that he'd stolen a bunch of watches. He said he'd hidden them in a locker at the station. I know he never meant to put me in harm's way; he even tried to talk me out of it, but at that point I'd have risked anything to stay with him. I guess we were both stupid thinking we wouldn't get caught. I went to pick up the watches, and when I'd got them, I met him in the car. We actually thought we'd gotten away with it._

 _Neal went off to sell the watches, telling me where we needed to meet later that night. It was so stupid, but he gave me one of the watches to keep. I still can't believe how much of an idiot I was. I was still thinking that we were getting out of there, running away together to start our lives, when I showed up to our meeting place that night._

 _He wasn't there. But the police were. And that watch was on my wrist._

 _Part of me wanted to snitch on him; after all, he was the one who'd stolen the watches. I was so angry that he'd left me there, that he hadn't come, but it quickly turned from anger with him, to anger with myself for being so naïve. How could I actually have thought things would get better for me? That I'd actually found someone who loved me enough to put me first. But he didn't show, and he wasn't there when I needed him. I never really forgave him for that._

 _Maybe I could have, if not for Henry. The day I found out I was pregnant, alone in that prison cell, was the day I knew I'd really, really screwed up. Because I hadn't just messed up my own life; I was about to mess up someone else's. Someone completely innocent._

 _I was faced with the hardest choice I have ever, and ever will have to make. Was I supposed to keep the kid, have it raised by someone else while I served my time and then swoop into his life a few years down the line, take him back when I had no home, no money, no job? Or did I give him to the system; the same system that had screwed me over time and time again? It was too late for an abortion, so that wasn't even an option. I was completely trapped, and completely alone._

 _In the end, I decided it was best to put him up for adoption. I knew he'd have no chance of a good life with me; at least he had a decent chance of being adopted by someone who could actually take care of him. Someone who would love him, provide for him, and give him everything I knew I could never give him. I had to give him a chance._

 _The only thing that hurt more than the labor, was turning a blind eye as they took my son out of the room, just seconds after he was born. The doctor tried to tell me that it wasn't too late, and that I could still keep him. But I couldn't. And while every cell in my body screamed out for me to take my child back, to hold him to me and never let anyone take him from me, my brain kept me silent._

 _After I got out of prison, I had nothing but that stupid car and the money Neal had gotten for the watches. I wanted to throw them both in the river, but then I would truly have had nothing. The money was enough for a down payment on a rented apartment, as well as the first couple of months rent. I tried out a few jobs, but I'd never worked before, and my distrust of authority meant I lost those jobs as quick as I got them._

 _A few months after my release, I saw an advert for a bail bonds firm looking to hire a bounty hunter. It said that no qualifications were required, just excellent levels of fitness and a person who was not easily intimidated. I applied, and within weeks I was trained up and catching the guys who skipped bail, taking a healthy percentage of each bounty. It turned out I was damn good at the job._

 _Three years later, after an argument with my boss, I told them to suck it, and went freelance. By that point, I had enough contacts and enough money saved up to go it alone._

 _But that was the thing. I was alone. I didn't make a single friend in those ten years after Henry was born. People did try to get close to me, but I no longer trusted anyone. I pushed people away before they could get too close. I resented everyone I met for the life they'd lived, which would invariably have been better than mine. I was in this pit of self-pity, self-loathing and general selfishness._

 _I told myself I didn't, but all I really wanted was a family. But I'd resigned myself to never having one, and my life was so…empty._

 _And then Henry came back into my life, ten years later, and I couldn't believe it. This amazing, intelligent, spirited little boy was mine, and he'd grown up all right. Better than all right! He hadn't gone through the same hell I had, and I'm grateful for that every day. I know now that I made the right decision giving him up. He could never have had a decent life with me. But I thank my lucky stars every single day that he came to find me._

 _Isn't it crazy how much things can change in five years? I have my son, I have a little brother, I have my parents, and I have friends. I have Killian. I have love._

 _I have love._

Killian smiled broadly at the very last sentence Emma had written in her book. She was right; she had all the love in the world. As angry as it made him that she had spent so many years alone, and so many years before that so terribly mistreated, he was overwhelmed with happiness that she now recognised that she had the devotion and adoration of those around her.

She was proof that a person can get through anything, as long as they have the strength. And she certainly had been through enough. He silently vowed that she would never feel alone again. Nobody would ever, _ever_ hurt her. He would protect her body and her heart with every breath he took, and he would make sure she knew how loved she truly was.

He closed the book in his lap, and checked the time on his phone. 6:30am. Time to wake up, if he had bothered to sleep. Somehow, he didn't even feel tired despite his all-nighter. Emma would most likely still be asleep; she usually wouldn't rouse until closer to eight o'clock. He could grab some shut-eye until then, but scenes from the story he'd just read kept replaying in his head, and he knew he wouldn't be able to switch them off – not until he'd seen his Swan and reassured himself that she was happy and whole.

Instead, he stood up from his bed, placed the book down upon his desk, and climbed the ladder up onto the deck. He paced over to the side rail, and leaned his arms across it, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. The sea air and the first rays of early morning sunshine on his face calmed him as he waited patiently to see his love. And he felt heartened by the knowledge that now he knew her better than anyone, and that from now on, they'd have an unbreakable bond and an interminable depth of understanding.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: The end is nigh, my friends. Massive thank you to everyone who took the time to review and fave/follow the story. I hope reading it has been as cathartic for you as writing it has been for me. With all the recent spoilers and speculation for series 5 (mainly about Killian and his potential ties to Camelot), I'm almost certain that this story will become completely non-canon by September 27th, so I'm glad I got my take on it down and out before this becomes completely AU!**

 **As a reward for your getting through the angst-fest this fic has been (sorry about that...I have dark thoughts :P), here is a short FLUFF-FEST to finish off with. Because in life, happy endings are so rare...we might as well let them exist and run riot in fiction!**

 **If you've enjoyed this fruit of my twisted brain, please consider leaving a final review to let me know! Thanks again, and peace out!**

Chapter 11

 _To my Swan,_

 _If you are reading this letter, it means that either you have finished reading my story, or you've skipped straight to the end of the book (take that shocked look off your face, Swan; I know you have a habit of jumping to the end of books!). If the former is true, then thank you. Thank you for taking the time to learn about my past. I have never uttered a word, or otherwise shared, the majority of the memories I have recorded here. I must admit, I was somewhat scared to show even you, but I want no secrets from you. I just hope you don't think lesser of me after learning what you have._

 _I know what you'll be thinking, having read the very last words I wrote all those years ago: "until Milah." I can almost picture your face; that adorable crease your forehead makes when you start to doubt yourself. And I know there's that pang of jealousy when her name is mentioned; trust me, Swan, I feel that same pang whenever Neal is mentioned. And so I also understand how hard it is to trust that you are loved as much as she was. So I feel I need to explain to you a little more about the man I was when I met Milah._

 _In the years after Liam's death, I became someone I had never wanted to be. I was filled with anger at life, the injustice of it all, at all it had denied me and taken from me. I hurt a lot of people, and I did a lot of things that I'm not proud of. I was arrogant. And that's the man that Milah loved. Together we stole, together we killed. Our love was built on a shared hatred of the world, and a desire for revenge upon it and its inhabitants. We fed off the darkness in each other. But it wasn't happiness, and it wasn't satisfaction. It was empty, and it was cold. Of course, it wasn't all bad; despite it all, at least I wasn't alone. Then after she was killed, that loneliness returned full-force. My hatred intensified, and became absorbed upon one man. And it fuelled a rage that lasted hundreds of years, following me to Neverland, with all those years focussed solely on ending the crocodile._

 _But alas, I'm going off-topic; the true purpose of this letter is to tell you the most important part of my story. It is not recorded here, because it occurred many, many years after I finished writing this book. It's something that changed me - changed my entire perspective on life, helped me finally move past the ghosts that had haunted me for so many years. It crushed the hatred and rage that had festered in me for centuries, and brought me a happiness I could never have even hoped to attain. Anyone else would have figured out what, or whom, I'm referring to by now, but I know your preposterously misplaced lack of self-worth will hold you back from that assumption. But it's you, Emma. Everything I am, everything I have ever wanted, I have found in you._

 _I never realised how dark my life had been until you came along and lit all the candles. From the moment I laid eyes on you, it was like you were calling to me. I could sense your strength, your tenacity, and your untapped capacity to care and love. It sounds crazy, but I swear that I saw something in your eyes; I saw that you were like me; I saw the loneliness and the anguish hiding behind your greener than green gaze. And I couldn't draw my own eyes away from you. Though I played the game, put up that façade of arrogance that I had hidden behind for so long, my heart was screaming inside my chest. I knew without a doubt, from the first moment that you spoke to me, that you would never again be far from my thoughts. And I was right. I would have then, and always will, follow you to the ends of the world._

 _By now, you must know that I love you. And though I will never understand why, I know that my love is reciprocated. But I also know that, at times, you still doubt yourself. I just wish that you could see yourself through my eyes, Swan. And I will gladly spend the rest of my days trying to show you just how loved and adored you truly are. The single greatest choice I ever made was to follow you up that beanstalk._

 _After Neverland, when that curse was coming and you were forced to leave Storybrooke with Henry, I believed that not only would I never see you again, but you would not even remember who I was. It felt like my life was ending, right there and then. Back in the Enchanted Forest, I tried so hard to move on, to get by however I could. I fought like hell to get my ship back, stupidly believing it might go some way to filling the gaping hole you left in my heart. But nothing worked, and I knew that I would never again be whole. Until I got the opportunity to come to you in New York, to find you and bring you home. And when I had, I vowed to myself that never again would I be separated from you. I know it took you time to trust me, to open up, to reciprocate my feelings for you. But believe me, my love; I would've spent the rest of my days fighting for you._

 _And then when the darkness took you and I saw your name on that dagger, I was terrified. I know now, that the day I lose you, is the day I cease to exist. And I thank whatever powers there may be, that you were strong enough to defeat that darkness, and come back to me. And now here we are, after everything, and I have to pinch myself upon waking every morning, just to be sure that this is all real. I do not deserve you, Emma. But I know now, that all the hell my life has been, was leading me to you, and I would go through it all again just for a single moment at your side._

 _With all my love, my Swan,_

 _Your Killian_

* * *

Killian was still stood leaning over the railings of the Jolly, looking out over the ocean, when he heard quick footsteps behind him. He turned to see Emma running full pelt up the gangplank, stopping just for a second at the top as her eyes met his. He couldn't quite get a read of the expression on her face, and before he could ask her what was wrong, she was rushing across the deck. He turned his body just in time to catch her as she barrelled into his chest, her arms gliding around his neck as her lips crushed into his.

He returned her fevered kiss with equal fervour, his own arms snaking around her waist and holding her tight against him. He could have stayed like that forever, but the taste of salt in her kiss alerted him to the tears she was shedding, and he pulled back ever so slightly to take in her expression. His hand came up to her cheek to rest along her jaw, his thumb wiping lazily at the tear tracks down her face. He couldn't look away from her gaze; the intensity of her red-rimmed eyes on his own had him trapped within her stare.

"So, I'm guessing you read the book," he muttered, smiling ever so slightly in embarrassment.

She laughed at that, choking back a half sob as her hand tangled in the hair on the back of his head and pulled his forehead close to meet her own.

"I read the book," she whispered, "Killian, I'm so sorry. I never knew…"

"Don't apologise, Swan," he interrupted, pulling back slightly so he could look in her eyes.

She sniffled slightly, her face growing sombre.

"All that stuff that happened to you, when you were a kid," she muttered, pausing for a moment to consider her words, "Killian, you've survived so much."

"As have you," he answered, his expression growing equally grave.

"You read mine?" she asked, surprise clear in her tone.

"How could I not?" he answered, the corner of his lip curling up just slightly in a half smile, "You're the one mystery that nothing can hold me back from solving."

Emma laughed again timidly, her hand stroking around from the back of his head to rest on his cheek. And then his eyes became downcast.

"What is it?" she asked concernedly.

He swallowed thickly.

"I'm sorry for everything that happened to you," he said, his eyes not meeting hers as he focussed on a freckle on her collarbone.

"For once, I'm not," she answered, and his eyes flashed up in surprise to meet hers, "Killian, there's so many things we went through that happened to us both. You can't truly understand what all that stuff does to a person unless it's happened to you. And we've both lived it. As much as I wish that stuff hadn't happened, at least it's brought me closer to you."

"Emma, the thought of anyone hurting you…"

"Kills you," she interrupted, "I know, I feel the same about anyone hurting you. But it's all in the past."

"Aye," Killian answered, smiling timidly, "that it is. And I swear, no-one will ever lay so much as a finger on you while I'm around. I promise, I'll keep you safe."

"And I, you," she whispered back.

They fell into a brief silence, just lost in each other's eyes as they tried to come to terms and accept all the new information they had learned about one another. And then Emma spoke.

"Did you mean what you said? Well, what you wrote…" she asked, and Killian frowned, unsure as to what she was referring, "In the letter. Did you mean it all?"

And then his face softened, and his lips were on hers, gentle and slow. Then he pulled back, their noses still touching, to whisper, "Every word."

She smiled broadly, and he followed suit as she placed a quick peck on his lips.

"You know I feel the same about you, right?" she mumbled against his lips.

"I do now," he whispered, nudging her nose with his own.

"I love you," she said, breathing him in and letting out a quiet sigh.

"I love you, too," he answered, tightening his arms around her waist as if he never intended to let go, "always."


End file.
